


Light Up As If You Have a Choice

by keldjinfae



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:45:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 63,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keldjinfae/pseuds/keldjinfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A templar, a crazy Circle mage, a Witch of the Wilds, a war dog, a bard, a qunari, a healer, an elven assassin, and a drunken dwarf throw themselves at a dragon on top of a prison tower; they had to win, they were the punchline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ransom notes keep falling out your mouth

“You don’t _really_ think there’s a test tomorrow, do you?” Gwynlian’s voice was small and muffled, so buried underneath the blanket that only the top of her blonde head was exposed to the weak light of the dimming fireplace. She shifted under the scratchy cotton, her blue eyes peeking out from her warm refuge to study the girl in the bed opposite hers. “I mean, Enchanter Ceeley wouldn’t just assign one right there at dinner, would she?”

The girl in the bunk above hers snorted loudly, her long black hair slinking into Gwynlian’s vision before her shrewd eyes did. “Of course she would.” Wreda’s voice was just on the nasal side, her sharp manner of speech reflecting her gaze. “She’s always been a sadist.” Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly in amusement as Gwynlian fought the urge to slip back underneath the covers and avoid her mocking stare.

Another snort came from the bed Gwynlian had originally addressed, and a girl with tousled brown hair propped her head up on her hand, leaning forward so the firelight put her face into sharp contrast. “Perhaps she would’ve been happier as a templar, you mean?” Her grin seemed almost feral in the shadows as it tilted toward Wreda, but her eyes were soft as they settled on Gwynlian. “It’s probably better this way, actually. Think about it: we only get two hours to study everything we’ve already _been_ studying for two weeks, and we’ll wake up in the morning and panic for another hour before we take the test and realize that everything’s sunk in already.”

Gwynlian’s hand peeped out from under the blanket, pulling it down so she could return the smile. Then Wreda cut in, “Except for Solona, who’ll realize she’s still crap at Creation.”

“Wreda!” Gwynlian chastised softly, raising her hand to swat at the other girl’s dark hair. “That’s mean!”

“It’s all right, Gwyn,” Solona laughed. “I _am_ crap at Creation.” Her tone was wry, mocking her own ineptitude in the school Enchanter Ceeley had dubbed “most elite”. Of course, Torrin had claimed Spirit was superior, Iva swore by Entropy as the school that never failed, and Meerdan had taught Solona how to do something useful with her talent for frosting window panes.

She noticed Gwynlian was about to issue further reassurances and waved them away. “All I need to do is prove that I have an _understanding_ of the school’s properties and I’ll still be fit to leave the tower. Someday.” She added the last part softly, almost in a whisper, as if afraid to jinx the possibility. 

Mages in the Circle Tower were confined by superstition and an agreement that was forged under that same fear and mistrust, but temporary leave on business was not unheard of—difficult, yes, but not impossible. All an official mage had to do to was master the theory of each sanctioned school _and_ present a credible enough matter of business. The first part, oddly enough, was the easiest; try convincing a templar that darkspawn in the south was somewhat dangerous and still only seven mages were allowed to join the war effort.

Not that Solona particularly disapproved outside of mages needing to _ask_ to defend their home—after all, not all in the Tower knew _how_ to fight, and most of the mages that had been permitted to travel to Ostagar were healers. Including Senior Enchanter Wynne, who seemed to be the only enchanter proficient in Creation spells who could _explain_ the intricacies of the school without waxing poetic and leaving Solona a jumbled, near-babbling mess.

Wreda’s own opinion was, as always, equal parts comforting and annoying in her honesty. “That works for a mage who can’t shoot fire out of her fingers; the only mages they ever really grant leave to are the ones who can _support a templar_. Which leaves out Jowan, I suppose.” The frown twisting her thin mouth betrayed her own fears—for an apprentice whose talent was increasingly apparent in the entropic arts, her nerves had to be just as rattled as Solona’s.

Still, Wreda at least had a knack for casting glyphs and could manage a pass with a simple paralysis spell. “Bloody glyphs,” Solona grumped, falling back onto her pillow with a muted thump. “Oh, and leave Jowan alone,” she muttered offhand, her defense of her somewhat hapless friend habitual these days, especially since more and more of their peers sought to get in their own two bits on his botched lessons. Wreda’s derisive laugh and Gwynlian’s sympathetic clucking provided more honest comfort and annoyance.

“ _You’ll_ get out, Solona,” Gwynlian reassured softly, “I know you will.”

Wreda’s scoff was just on the side of mean-spirited this time. “You have a better chance at getting out of here than either of us, Gwyn, and you just sit there and nod and smile for the templars like a good little Circle mage.” Her grip on the edge of her mattress tightened and she pushed herself further off the bed, all of her face coming into Gwynlian’s view so the other girl could clearly see her scowl. 

Gwynlian’s cornflower eyes sparked and she sat up, hunched forward so she wouldn’t hit her head on Wreda’s bed. “There’s no one for me to _heal_ right now, Wreda. What am I supposed to do—go to Ostagar? I’ve never even been to a simple market stall but suddenly I can go to war? Don’t think that just because I am _practical_ I desire to see my sister any less.”

Wreda twisted and slipped out of her bed, her bare feet slapping softly against the stone floor. “I don’t know _why_ you’ve spent so much time worrying about this test when you know you’re going to pass… and do nothing with it, even with family out there who still gives a damn about you.” Their voices had risen in volume, and several nearby apprentices began to stir and mumble in their sleep.

“Wreda,” Solona’s voice was quiet, carefully neutral, “I’m not exactly chomping at the bit to go to Ostagar either.” Her gaze met her friend’s sharp gray eyes, seeing yet another peer’s desperation to get out threatening to overwhelm her. “We’ll be granted leave,” she promised. “On _our_ terms, all right?” She watched Wreda’s mouth open, close, and then her long hair whipped around as she spun and tugged herself back up onto the top bunk, refusing to allow someone as weak as she deemed Gwynlian to see her lip tremble.

Gwynlian looked as if she were about to say something to placate her, but Solona shook her head, catching her eye; the last thing Wreda would want right now was for someone to calm her down, her disposition typically bristling at best. “Just go to sleep, Gwyn,” she whispered, rolling over onto her opposite side so the other girl would assume she would do the same.

In truth, Solona was fairly certain she’d be awake for most of the night. No matter how she tried to dress it up for her own benefit, Wreda was right: the templars weighed in their own opinions heavily every time a mage of the Circle sought leave, and they tended to favor those who could heal. While Solona knew well enough _how_ to cast the spells, Creation demanded proficiency in visualization, something that she couldn’t quite master.

It was easy enough to picture fire or ice, things that you saw without magic involved, but in order to heal she first had to find the ailment and _know_ how to mend it; in order to cast a glyph she first had to see the symbol clearly—and her circles were always less than perfect—and _know_ that the glyph was going to paralyze or repel, ward or neutralize. Solona was aware that most of her shortcomings came in self-doubt, but realizing that she wasn’t confident in her own abilities didn’t do much to convince her otherwise, and Enchanter Ceeley had little patience and liked to play favorites with mages she believed had a knack for Creation, like Gwynlian or the ever-irksome Finn.

Solona’s eyes closed, summoning images of Ferelden outside of what the Circle Tower’s narrow windows provided; they were getting harder and harder to recall, years inside an old, musty tower fading the sights and smells of grassy fields, the feel of rainwater sliding along her scalp and down her neck. Every day she grew just as desperate as Wreda to get out, to sink her feet in muddy roads and smell fresh herbs and buy her own food from an innkeeper. Her ambitions seemed small, perhaps, to anyone who only had to open the front door, but some mornings these goals were the only reason she got out of bed.

Her biggest hurdle was becoming an _official_ mage, which all began and ended with the looming Harrowing, its challenge just as unknown as it was inevitable. Solona wasn’t sure which was worse: feeling unprepared for a test she couldn’t anticipate, or knowing that it would be something dangerous and some apprentices either never returned at all, or came back with faces she knew that had not an ounce left of _who_ they used to be. And for a reason Solona couldn’t quite define beyond a feeling, she knew that her Harrowing was near, imposing, significant.

She’d noticed templars and senior mages alike observing her, and her mentor had suddenly snapped out of her usual airy “learn by trial and error” demeanor and begun to drill already memorized lessons into her head, as if over ten years of learning was no longer enough and they were out of time. Solona tried to find comfort in the notion that if she passed her Harrowing and Ceeley’s Creation test, she would be able to continue her studies outside of the tower, but she still had to appeal to over a thousand years of Chantry influence. 

_Wonderful_.

Her first order of business, however, was to sleep. She tried to relax her eyes, find a position against her pillow that wouldn’t leave a crick in her neck, listen to the soft noises of the other apprentices sleeping around her. While they usually soothed her, tonight each snore just seemed to remind her that she was now the only one awake. Solona grumbled and buried her face into the pillow, shifting until feathers no longer poked at her cheeks through thin cotton.

She needed something to distract her mind, something that didn’t require too much thought but still engaged her enough to settle her nerves. _Ah, that’s it._ One more maneuver to draw her knees up to her chest, and Solona settled in for the night, reciting the introduction of the Creation text she’d been studying since finishing her meal of lukewarm soup—if there was anything to dull the eyes and mind, it was any book ever written by Senior Enchanter Phillis Roban.

___

A hand on her shoulder shook her awake, and Solona could tell by the chill in the air that it was too early—and by the hardness of the metal digging through her nightdress that her visitor was no mage. Her eyes snapped open and she found herself staring at the impassive visor of a templar. “Wha—?” she trailed off, still groggy from the dream she could no longer quite recall.

“Get dressed,” a man’s voice instructed, the metal of his helm making the sound hollow, tinny.

“Who—” Solona was already sitting up, her fingers almost unconsciously drawing her blanket around her shoulders.

“Quickly,” the templar added, backing away and turning to join two more templars waiting at the door. They each faced the wall away from her, but they didn’t leave the room.

Were they afraid she would bolt? She knew better than to ask for more privacy—if they hadn’t answered her previous questions, they weren’t likely to respond now. Solona let out the shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, planting her feet onto the icy stone of the tower floor and tiptoeing to the communal wardrobe that held her robes. She almost wished one of the other girls would wake up, but she knew the templars had waited to act until her departure would go unnoticed; Harrowings were routine for them.

She pulled her apprentice robes out of the wardrobe and threw them on over her nightdress, the tower too cold to go without both. Besides, even if the templars had come for her in the middle of a sweltering heat wave, Solona wouldn’t have trusted them not to sneak a peek; most templars were honorable, even mortified at the thought of mages _having_ fleshy bits underneath their robes, but she had noticed more lately, especially now that she was no longer a child, who didn’t have the same reservations.

She straightened her robes over her nightdress, reassuring herself in her actions as much as she was stalling for what little time she could, and shoved her feet into her one pair of shoes, simple dark blue slippers suited for life indoors. Perhaps, if she passed her Harrowing tonight, she would be able to replace them soon with boots that could trek through snow. “Couldn’t wait until _after_ the Creation test?” she sighed.

A cough from one of the templars at the door spurred her into action, and she slowly turned and approached them, clearing her throat when she drew near so they didn’t have to look for her. The templar who’d shaken her awake wasted no time opening the door and ushered one of the waiting two out into the hall; Solona was expected to follow, and she assumed the remaining templars would fall into step behind her. Which was great, really, because if there was anything Solona loved to do in the middle of the night, it was be led around by a bunch of templars.

As they left the room, Solona thought she heard a faint click from the boys’ dormitory—her eyes shot to the right and caught the doorknob’s fractional turn as it was released. Another glance to her front assured her that the templars either hadn’t noticed or simply didn’t care because their current task was more important. It wasn’t anything new for mages to sneak around the shadows of the tower, but most waited until late afternoon when templars were more likely to be occupied; at night, the only duties the templars had were staying awake and standing in the halls. Even the adults on the second floor, the senior mages, had to steal away precious minutes in a dark corner if they wanted to so much as _kiss_.

The rest of their trek along the corridor and stairs was silent, but Solona’s mind was far from the same and her heart wasn’t fairing much better. Despite years of running up and down those winding stairs, she was oddly breathless before she even set foot on the first step. The templars, at least, seemed to understand her apprehension and kept their pace slow—or maybe it would have been better to just hurry up and get to the Harrowing Chamber so she could get this over with, starting with finding out just what the Harrowing _was_.

Solona knew it was dangerous—hundreds of years of secrecy and the ceremony wasn’t just having tea with the first enchanter. The mages who _survived_ the Harrowing still walked and laughed and cried, but always looked different, as if whatever they had seen or heard haunted them. The test was dangerous enough to kill or worse: there were apprentices who came back, but as Tranquil—without dreams or emotion, no longer people in their fear of what they had to face.

 _“It changes you, Loony; for better or worse, you’re not the same person._ She remembered brown eyes, so full of determination and mirth and sadness, but Anders had come back from the Harrowing a different person. No, that wasn’t right: he played the same boy she knew, but underneath there was anger and desperation that made him more impatient than usual, more rebellious, until one day he leapt into the unstable waters of Lake Calenhad in a half-cocked try for freedom.

The templars brought Anders back only a day later, damp and scraggly and shivering, but that anger, that sense of injustice, still lingered underneath his smirk and his quips about the bathwater in the Tower being colder than the lake. After that day, their friendship had changed as well, slipping into something almost as routine as her relationship with Jowan. Now Wreda was beginning to crack, a storm already brewing in her eyes even before her Harrowing—how long before Solona lost her as well? Would the Harrowing mean the loss of herself?

They passed other templars as they went, men stationed by the quarters of the already-Harrowed mages, and as they drew close to the Tower’s chapel, Solona could see a Chantry sister kneeling in front of Andraste’s outstretched stone arms. The templars guiding her seemed to slow, as if they expected Solona to request a little time for prayer, and only her fear and her interest in the girl in the chapel kept her from rolling her eyes—if anything, they should’ve stopped in the library so she could look up a few more defensive spells before they threw her into what was likely going to be a fight… with templars? Other mages? She knew the Tower kept dragonlings in the templars’ quarters, but she really didn’t want to think about them just then.

Solona realized she’d been staring at the sister as her thoughts drifted, and the other girl likewise seemed to have noticed her interest, as she began to rise to her feet. “Can I help you?” she asked, her voice high and reedy. Her brown hair was pulled back into intricate plaits, and her lips were lightly painted with rouge, an odd compliment to her pale skin and chantry robes: former nobility.

Normally Solona wouldn’t have paid so much attention, but for some reason this girl seemed to have been waiting for her arrival—to counsel a frightened apprentice? She shook her head silently, tearing her focus from the chapel and the sister’s motives, and the templars took the hint and continued to lead her onward and upward. As they reached the stairs that would take them to the third floor, she heard a hushed “Maker be with you” come from behind her, and looked out of the corner of her eye to see the sister returning to her vigil with Andraste. This time, Solona’s apprehension wasn’t quite enough to keep her eyes from rolling.

They ascended yet another winding staircase and came out on the landing of the Great Hall, the torches along the wall bolstered by the pale light from long, barred windows. Solona shivered involuntarily, just as much from the chill in the air as what awaited her at the top of the tower. Determined not to show the templars how vulnerable she felt, she refused to wrap her arms around herself as she wanted to and instead remarked, “Lovely evening for a Harrowing, isn’t it?” As soft as her voice was, it still echoed on the bare walls of the imposing hall.

“Ssh.” The templar in front of her, the one who seemed to be in charge, hissed firmly enough to enforce Solona’s continued silence.

Solona cleared her dry throat, rubbing her fingers against her thighs as surreptitiously as possible to try to bring some warmth to her legs. “So I’m probably right,” she said lowly, her breath fogging the air. “No tea.” The templar turned his head just enough to warn her into silence, and it worked—it wasn’t any good getting herself imprisoned or run through before she could even attempt her Harrowing, after all.

However, for good or ill, the templars appeared to pick up on her impatience and began to walk faster, their boots clanking against hard stone, shuffling over thick carpet. She _almost_ changed her mind and told them it was okay to move at a pace that was more on the side of glacial, or even backtrack altogether and let her go back to bed. Since such suggestions were more likely to get Solona _dragged_ up the tower stairs, she kept her thoughts to herself.

The rest of the journey rushed by, and all too soon, each footfall on the steps to the Harrowing Chamber resounded in Solona’s ears as loudly as her rapidly beating heart. Her simple robes and nightdress, which had been too thin only seconds before, now seemed to tighten uncomfortably as sweat made her bangs stick to her forehead. The door loomed in front of her, and the leading templar reached out and opened it before Solona could say anything about it—not that she trusted her voice to work in her parched throat.

On the other side of the heavy door, moonlight illuminated the chamber within, streaming in through stained glass and painting the room’s inhabitants. There were more templars, all forming a semi-circle around the first enchanter and knight-commander, who both stood before a basin of water. As Solona drew closer, Irving removed a vial from his pocket and emptied its contents into the basin, making it glow with an ethereal blue light.

Solona was temporarily blinded by its brilliance and her mind seemed to scramble to pick up the slack. They couldn’t possibly think she was ready to undertake this test; she only had a Creation exam in a few more hours, after all. She was also beginning to fear that she would have to drink from the basin: the disorientation she could already feel, the whispers in the back of her mind and the tingling in her fingertips, could only mean Irving had added lyrium dust—distilled lyrium, yes, but lyrium nonetheless.

As her vision came back, spotted with the traces of light left behind by the lyrium’s flash, so did her awareness of what was going on around her. She started as she realized the knight-commander was addressing her, and had probably been speaking since Solona entered the chamber with the other templars. Her mind caught up to Greagoir’s speech and she recognized a verse from the Chant of Light that all Circle mages had memorized nearly the day they’d been brought to the Tower; something so familiar she could have easily tuned him out again, but this time Solona clung to his words desperately, listening for some clue as to what was coming next.

“Your magic is a gift, but it’s also a curse,” Greagoir continued, beginning to pace the room in front of her, taking care to maintain eye contact with Solona as he spoke, “for demons of the dream realm, the Fade, are drawn to you and seek to use _you_ as a gateway into this world.” He drew to a stop in front of the basin, and Solona was less worried about fighting all of the templars and the first enchanter, and even more worried about the lyrium—something about Greagoir mentioning the Fade was too significant.

As if able to see Solona putting the pieces together, the first enchanter began to speak. “This is why the Harrowing exists.” He gestured to the basin behind him, his other arm outstretched to her, beckoning her forward. Solona felt her foot shuffle forward across unrelenting stone, her leg following after it since it was attached, her body propelled forward with the motion, and her accursed left foot following suit. Somehow she wound up at Irving’s side, staring down at the disquieting lyrium with much more than a hint of foreboding.

“The ritual sends you into the Fade and there you will face a demon, armed with only your will.” Irving’s hand was at her elbow, his fingers barely brushing against the fabric of her robes, and all Solona could do was let her eyes travel to them, study them, count them, do whatever she could with this presentation of fingers while she waited for one of the templars to laugh and yell “just kidding!” Of all of the trials she had been imagining on her way here, for some stupid reason she hadn’t even considered the possibility of the _first enchanter_ summoning and trapping a _demon_ for her to fight, and the knight-commander _condoning_ it. Frankly, Solona would’ve rather taken on the dragonlings.

Her voice was barely audible, but Solona was determined to keep it from trembling as she spoke. “And what happens if I can’t defeat this demon?”

She nearly flinched when Greagoir immediately supplied the answer. “It will turn you into an abomination and the templars will be forced to slay you.” Years of serving in the Tower, years of passed and failed Harrowings, added weight to his practicality and made “forced” sound more believable than any other templar could have managed. But still, no clean slate?

Greagoir joined Solona at her other side, not touching her as Irving was, but trying to provide as much comfort as he was able. “This is lyrium, the very essence of magic and your gateway into the Fade,” he said, his words reassuring her with what she already knew. Even so, as he spoke, he bore them toward the basin and Solona found it very hard to stand, let alone keep pace with him. Her mouth opened and closed, trying to find words, but none would come. Instead, she turned her head back and forth between them, still unable to believe that either of them would put any apprentice through an ordeal like this after what seemed like _nothing_ to prepare her for it. Irving’s grip tightened, encircling her upper arm and nearly digging into her flesh in his urgency to break through to her before it was too late.

“The Harrowing is a secret out of necessity, child. Every mage must go through this trial by fire—as _we_ succeeded, _so shall you_.” His words were little more than a whisper, his eyes boring into hers with a significance that finally cracked through her daze and left her blinking, then nodding as the numbness left her legs. Irving returned her nod, releasing his hold on her arm. “Keep your wits about you, and remember the Fade is a realm of _dreams_ : the spirits may rule it, but your own _will_ is real—”

“The apprentice must go through this test _alone_ , First Enchanter,” Greagoir interrupted, and Solona felt more resolve to see this through seeping into her core, offering her strength. “You _are_ ready,” Greagoir added, knowing that this feeling of injustice was often more effective at getting an apprentice through this trial than “you can do it” would ever be. And Solona _was_ ready: to prove to everyone in the chamber—Irving, Greagoir, the numerous templars waiting behind her with swords and helms that concealed any passion—that her will was not only _real_ , it was _pissed off_.

She drew her lower lip between her teeth, biting down on the soft flesh in an attempt to anchor her consciousness as she reached out and touched the pale blue water in the basin. Even the lyrium potions she’d had once in awhile couldn’t prepare her for its potency, a burning pain shooting up her body from her fingertips to sear her eyes. She knew as the Harrowing Chamber faded from sight with a flash of white that _when_ she woke up, she’d have a split lip to compliment her inevitable splitting migraine.


	2. go back to sleep

Solona had had this dream many times before: a class in the library, an enchanter calling on apprentices for answers when she thought they might not be paying attention. The actual topic and the teacher were nondescript, voices distant and faces around her blurred. While these dreams usually ended in a quiz or an assignment she never seemed to be prepared for (or a tryst with a boy who never quite managed to kiss her), something about this time was different—a niggling feeling this lesson was something new, something much more important.

She leaned forward, straining to hear the enchanter from her spot on the floor just in case she could give some credence to her suspicions. Her words remained as generic and removed as ever, so Solona began to look around her instead, seeing if any book or peer would give her a hint why or if this dream had any particular significance. As her gaze wavered from the enchanter at the head of the class, it caught something else: a flicker to her right, a glimmer of light that flitted away out of sight when she tried to look directly at it.

Solona’s head whipped around to look at where the light had been, her attention now solely on what had imposed on her dream. Her eyes fixed so intently on the spot that was now vacant, she caught the same flicker again, this time a little to the left of where it had appeared before, and closer—the light was deliberately trying to avoid notice. Instead of seeking it out again, she waited, trying to keep her posture as relaxed as possible.

The light flickered again, this time nearly right next to her face and in focus: a small sphere of white, crackling light—a wisp. Solona leapt to her feet and stretched out her hands, a burst of flame erupting from her fingertips and engulfing the intruder as it began to buzz with a darker energy. The spirit crackled again, too weak to withstand the fire, and then fizzled out; as it vanished, so did the rest of the “students” gathered around her.

Solona watched them disappear along with the still-lecturing enchanter, her eyes surveying the room shrewdly for any sign of more wisps waiting to take advantage of her distracted state, as well as any other beings that might manifest. She stayed poised for further attacks, but turned slowly to take stock of her surroundings. The library remained, shelves and tables intact to her left, but when Solona looked to what should have been the doorway to the right, the scene was fuzzy, shifting under her gaze, until it ended abruptly at what seemed to be swirling, black vapor.

As her awareness returned, so did her memory: this was a test, her Harrowing—she’d entered the Fade awake, her dream lessening the jarring impact of the lyrium. She felt it now, the disorientation of her entry, as if she’d been shoved through a long, narrow tube. She’d only ever been in the Fade when she slept, and this ritual was something she hoped she wouldn’t have to do often in the future.

She closed her eyes in an attempt to settle the sensation, her thoughts swimming in disorder; she was in a dream, but this dream was part of a realm in the Fade, and possibly shared by other entities. Solona opened her eyes again, slow and deliberate, first peeking out of the corner of her eyes to check for anymore wisps, and then to her right to study the black gateway—that was where she must have come in, but she was fairly certain that it wouldn’t permit her to leave. She doubted she could just “wake up” either—in this state of awareness, her actions determined her will, and it was possible that the demon awaiting her would be in front of a similar portal.

Of course, she’d have to find it first. Solona looked to her left again, half-turning as she did so, and surveyed the terrain in front of her. The room had dissolved, and while some smaller elements—a desk, scattered books, a window still oddly stationary in mid-air—were still about, Solona mostly saw the Fade as it was: winding and distinctly ethereal. She couldn’t see as far as what she perceived would be the horizon, the view too twisted and fuzzy, but what her eyes did meet was enough to go by, and served to remind her that she was alone more effectively than the hurried warnings in the Harrowing Chamber.

She exhaled, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, and pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead, the action pushing her bangs away from her eyes and leaving them even more askew than they already were. All of these actions were meaningless, her physical body back in the Harrowing Chamber, but they represented familiarity and served to bolster her confidence. “Okay,” she said out loud, her voice sounding distant to even her own ears in the Fade, “time for one high stakes game of hide and seek.”

As she explored, she noticed that this particular section of the Fade was surprisingly straightforward—normally, even mages who entered with the aid of lyrium said that realms could shift, warp according to who walked them. The more ground Solona covered, the more certain she became this terrain was static—it phased in and out of clarity, but the images were always the same, still presenting objects she would expect to see amongst things she never would have thought of on her own.

More wisps materialized as she progressed, most of them glimmering far enough away that she could simply freeze them before they had a chance to creep closer and surprise her. Each served to strengthen her resolve, as well as add fuel to the anger that had dwindled in the wake of her initial shock. Every creature that attacked was just as trapped in this test as she was, and enticed by the only potential vessel available.

So what would her real challenge be—what sought to possess her here? Solona ran over lessons apprentices had been routinely taught every year since they were brought to the Circle, mulling on the demonic hierarchy in an attempt to determine what she would have to resist. She found it unlikely that Irving would pit an apprentice against something as powerful as a pride or desire demon, but assuming things in the Fade was dangerous. Whatever she had to face, she doubted it would just spring out like a wisp: something about what Irving had said about keeping her wits about her warned her otherwise.

Nothing more threatening seemed to be present, at least at the moment. Irving’s binding ritual must have cordoned this part of the Fade, barring intruders just as effectively as it kept her penned in. But if her dream had eased her into the test, then was any of what was around her brought into being by the demon, and was anything else aside from wisps waiting to test her resolve? At this point, the questions alone were enough to drive Solona to distraction. She growled and drew to a halt, clutching at her hair again in frustration.

“Someone else thrown to the wolves, as fresh and unprepared as ever.”

Solona jumped and looked around frantically for whoever had spoken, frost collating around her fingertips for another attack. The voice had sounded like a man’s, but as far as she could tell there was no one else present. Movement below her line of vision drew her attention to the ground, where a mouse skittered out from under what looked like a gnarled tree.

Since this was the Fade it wasn’t so strange to converse with a mouse, but as this was also a section of the Fade she knew sheltered a demon, Solona didn’t immediately allow the cold energy around her fingertips to dissipate. She continued to simply watch the mouse, waiting to see what it would do. After a moment, the mouse perched up on its hind legs and sniffed the air around her, as if it were sizing her up in turn. “So,” Solona said after more silent tension had passed between them, her voice still sounding apart from herself, “you’re a talking rat.”

The mouse’s tail flicked in irritation, and it dropped back down onto all fours. “It’s always the same, isn’t it?” he muttered, his tone matching his still-twitching tail. “It’s not your fault, I suppose, but that still doesn’t leave you much time.” He craned his neck and began to groom a patch on his back, nibbling at… Fade fleas, perhaps? After he seemed satisfied with his efforts, he turned back around and rose onto his hind legs again. “Allow me to welcome you to the Fade,” he greeted, his tone bored, almost as if this were routine. “You can call me… well… Mouse.”

Solona released the field of energy held in her hands, still wary but willing to further investigate Mouse’s purpose in her test. “Is that a family name?” she asked, her lips quirking just a little when Mouse’s tail gave another twitch, accompanied by his right ear. Except this time, Mouse moved in an odd, wriggling sort of way and light pooled around his small form.

Recognizing the signs of a spell, Solona took a step back and summoned the cold energy back to her fingers, ready to retaliate. She watched as Mouse’s silhouette changed within the light, growing and morphing, and then the light was gone just as quick as it came, and Mouse… was a man. “No, I don’t remember my real name,” he supplied matter-of-factly, a raised eyebrow belying his pleasure at surprising her. “It was from long ago, and now you’re in the same boat I was, aren’t you?”

Changing into a man made Solona even less inclined to trust him, but she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt—or keep her enemy close—for the sake of passing her Harrowing; she was sure that Mouse wouldn’t even be in this realm if not to have some effect on her test, positive or negative. She again released the power in her hands, dropping tiny particles of frost to the ground. “The ‘same boat?’ You’re… an apprentice?”

Mouse looked less smug now, his brows knitting underneath blond hair as his lips turned down. “I… think so. It was so long ago, and I’ve lost so much since. I think I ran away. I hid…” His blue eyes sparked and a sneer twisted features that were more striking than handsome. “They killed me. The templars, I mean. Sadistic bastards.”

“The templars simply killed you, then?” Even though some of the templars Solona knew might have done just this, Greagoir was fairly efficient at weeding such men out of his ranks. Of course, Mouse might have failed his Harrowing before Greagoir’s time in the Circle.

“That is what they do to the bodies of apprentices who _take too long_ , apparently,” Mouse spat, his hands clenching into fists. “They figure you’re too weak to resist the demon and they don’t want anything… getting out.”

“That’s… horrible,” Solona whispered, still unwilling to trust Mouse, but lamenting this fate for any mage.

“Yes. Horrible.” Mouse was still looking down at his shoes, but his hands were no longer balled at his sides and his eyes were dull.

“Um… how long do _I_ have, exactly?” Solona asked, looking around her nervously for some sign of her time limit—perhaps standing here and chatting with Mouse wasn’t the best course of action to take.

Her question seemed to spur Mouse out of his misery. “I’m not sure… not long, I’d imagine. They want to throw you to the mercy of a demon as soon as possible.” His gaze shifted from left to right, and he hesitated for a moment, as if reluctant to say what was on his mind, but then he cleared his throat and took a step toward Solona. “I can help you here, if you’d like. I’m not much for fighting, but I can get you around this part of the Fade.”

“Not that I’m turning down help, but doesn’t this path only go one way?” Solona offered a little smile, crooked and what Wreda called “charming,” said like she had a stomachache.

Her attempt at teasing was lost on Mouse, who seemed intent on wallowing—not that she could blame him after so many years trapped in the Fade. “You would be a fool to assume everything in the Fade is straightforward,” he chastised. “You know that, don’t you? There are other spirits here, sharing this realm with the demon; they’re here to test you, if you’re up for the challenge, and if you pass their tests they’ll help you.”

“Are you a test then?” Solona asked, still annoyed at Mouse’s insinuation that she was simple. There was something about him, the slight whine to his tone even when angry, that reminded her of Jowan, which was both comforting and irritating, really: on the one hand, she knew how to talk to him, and on the other hand, he might still be a trap. Either way, she’d have to walk on eggshells around him.

“I’m… small. Unnoticeable. I’ve learned how to hide in the shadows here, and now… I guess I lead you to the demon.” He offered her a smile that she gathered was supposed to be reassuring, but it looked strained, as if it were pasted onto his face. “Once you find it, you kill it: that’s your way out.”

Solona’s eyebrow rose almost of its own accord. “That’s it? It can’t be that _simple_.”

Mouse snorted. “Aside from demons being anything _but_ simple, you’re wise to question. Killing _everything_ you see is one sure way to get _yourself_ killed, and what awaits you is powerful, cunning.” He finally seemed to notice he wasn’t endearing himself to Solona and made a gesture that was probably supposed to placate her. “Uh… let’s see… look at it this way: the Fade is all a matter of will, right? I’m not really a mouse, just like you’re not really standing there in that body. You resist a demon’s possession here by _fighting_ it.”

“So I’m thinking it to death?” A small laugh bubbled from Solona’s lips, made just a little sharp by her nerves. “All right, so I fight it,” she added quickly when Mouse looked like he was about to give another lecture—apparently her sense of humor was also lost on denizens of the Fade. “Um… you don’t have to follow me, you know, if you wish to remain hidden.” Mouse did seem like the twitchy sort, and Solona wasn’t sure knowing which spirit was where was worth his seeming determination to lament everything.

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” Mouse said generously, looking around him again. “I missed my chance, yes, but it’s difficult to just hide while another apprentice faces her Harrowing.” He smiled again, the action still more of a grimace, and this time Solona noticed something curious about him—he never quite met her eyes when he looked at her.

Solona shrugged, careful to keep her reservations about her new guide to herself. “I’m not going to turn down help. Lead the way, Mouse.”

Mouse’s eyes widened and he searched the area around them again, twitching nervously. “Uh… I’ll just follow you, if that’s all right. I can tell you when you’re near another spirit. How about that?”

Solona bit down on the inside of her cheek in an effort to resist sighing. “Sounds fine. So… onward and forward?” She waited as Mouse made another gesture with his hands, this time in a complicated symbol reminiscent of the one his ears had made earlier, and light pooled around him again, shifting him back into a mouse. After a moment, she asked, “Is it possible for me to change my shape, like you do?”

Mouse’s tail twitched slowly this time, as if in thought. “Maybe,” he finally conceded slowly, “but only if you’re willing to forget that you’re you, and that takes a long time. I’d focus on something simpler for now, stick to what you already know.” He looked up at her, nose twitching as he sniffed the air again, then scurried around her left foot to hide behind her. “I’m ready when you are,” he prompted.

Solona didn’t bother to hide an eye roll this time, resuming her journey along the path. It was odd traveling with someone as small as Mouse; she couldn’t see him out of her periphery, so the only way for her to know that he was still with her was to listen for the sound of his paws scratching against the ground as he ran to catch up with her longer strides. As she still wasn’t ready to trust his assistance, the thought that he was scurrying around behind her only served to make Solona even tenser than she already was, and short of turning around and walking backwards into an unknown threat, there wasn’t much she could do about it. “Do you know anything about the demon I must face?” she blurted out, wincing when her voice more than likely gave away her nerves—at least this way Mouse would have to speak.

She heard his irritated sigh, accentuated by a squeak. “There are… many creatures in the Fade, some all fire and rage, others less so.” Another squeak, and then, “Now, it is _dangerous_ for me to be out here in the open like this, so the less attention you draw to my presence, the better.”

As if to punctuate his warning, a wisp attacked from further along the road, at the crest of another hill. The dark energy of a spirit attack was more chilling than its electric crackle suggested, affecting soul more than body. Solona hesitated for a moment, caught up in the emotional shock of an attack meant to cause despair, but then she felt a sharp pain in her ankle and looked down to see Mouse sinking his teeth in; the pain brought her back to the present and she encased yet another wisp in ice.

When she was certain the wisp wouldn’t attack again, she looked down at where Mouse had been—he’d since sneaked back to his position somewhere behind her—and at her punctured ankle. “Uh… thanks,” she muttered, wondering if a wound in the Fade was the same as one in a dream, or if some part of her would actually be affected because of her method of entry. Really, the magnitude of the headache she could get just from thinking about these things seemed almost enough to rival the effects of lyrium.

Determined not to just stand there and silently drive herself insane, Solona started forward again. This time she didn’t distract herself by talking to Mouse, instead just listening intently for the sounds of his progress behind her, stopping and starting again as he darted from one object littering the path to another. More wisps tried to overcome her as they progressed, their numbers increasing, but Solona was still able to disable them fairly quickly as they preferred to stay at a distance.

So when they rounded another bend in the path and stumbled into a small pack of wolves, Solona cursed herself for becoming overconfident. There were only three of them, ghostly and hard to look at directly, and they were still far enough away that she at least had time to freeze one before they charged, but the other two snarled and rushed at her, covering ground quickly. Solona backtracked, trying to find footing that was more secure, and summoned another blast of fire, setting both wolves aflame—just in time for one of them to slam into her and knock her to the ground.

Solona pushed at the beast’s neck, somewhat relieved that she _could_ touch its translucent body, trying to hold off its gnashing teeth long enough to cover it in another sheath of ice. The wolf was strong though, determined to sink its teeth into her throat, and while she did manage to freeze it, she only had just enough time to roll out from beneath it before the other wolf got a hold of the hem of her robes and dragged her along the ground. Solona swore and kicked desperately, trying to get one good hit on the wolf’s snout, but it was too agile and simply yanked her sharply to the right, rolling her roughly onto her stomach.

They passed another dead, twisted tree, and Solona made a frantic grab for its trunk, wrapping her arms around it to try to resist the wolf’s power, and she delayed them just long enough for the wolf to let go and seek a better hold on her leg. Solona kicked again, this time scoring a hit on its jaw and stunning it. She broke one arm away from her grip on the tree and hit the wolf with a bolt of arcane power, disorienting it further, and took the precious few seconds she had to light its fur on fire again.

The wolf thrashed around wildly, trying to put out the flames, and Solona covered her ears to shield them from its keening. The shrieks were too much to bear, and the wolf threatened to set Solona’s robes on fire with her own spell, so Solona covered it in ice as well, killing it quickly and quenching the flames. Even so, she kicked at it once it stopped moving, just to make sure it was dead, and remained on her back, propped up on her elbows, until she heard the telltale scratching of Mouse’s return from his hiding place.

“You are… you’re a _true_ mage, aren’t you? Much more potential than I first thought.” Mouse was too excited to realize his rather backhanded compliment, unable to stay in one place and issuing an odd, wheezing sort of squeak as he spoke. “You really do have a chance to get out of this trial alive.”

“Thanks,” Solona gasped, breathless and shaking. She gave herself a once-over and noticed that the point of collision from the first charging wolf had badly singed her robes—if it had been on her any longer, it would have burned through to her flesh. Not that there would be any evidence of her struggle in the mortal realm… at least, so she thought. Unwilling to give away entirely just how much she had relied on luck and adrenaline, she slowly pushed herself up onto her feet, dusting herself off, and remarked, “So… _literally_ throwing us to the wolves; that one I _didn’t_ see coming.”

Mouse was abruptly his impatient self again, but less sullen than he had been before. “There are more threats ahead, and you must be prepared to face them.” It circumnavigated Solona’s feet, his entire body leaning in the direction of his nose as he sniffed the air. “There is another spirit ahead,” he cautioned. “Not the one hunting you, but still…”

“Wonderful,” Solona muttered. If her battle with the wolves was anything to go by, perhaps fighting the demon wouldn’t be as “simple” as she’d first thought. Then something in Mouse’s warning caught her attention—had he sensed the wolves’ presence as well? Instead of alerting him to her suspicions, she resolved to watch him more closely. “Any idea what _manner_ of spirit it is?”

“Mmm…” Mouse’s ears twitched up and down as he rose onto his hind legs again, sniffing the air even more intently. “No, but it is dangerous.”

Solona nodded slowly, her hands braced at her sides for combat if the need arose. “Only one direction to go, so… let’s go.” She started forward again, nearly tiptoeing around another bend in the path, and silently swore when she saw what this spirit was: a _bear_ , asleep and blocking the path ahead. There was something about this bear that was different from the wolves, though; it wasn’t transparent, for one, and neither did it appear feral. Instead, its posture seemed almost deliberately aloof, covering just enough of the path that slipping by without notice would be near impossible.

“Wolves, bears… is this the Fade or a forest?” Solona grumbled, rubbing her sweaty palms over the singe marks in her robes before she approached the bear, nerves humming through her body as she drew closer and closer. Even Mouse seemed particularly cowed by this creature, his paws barely audible as he crept along behind Solona. She stopped a few paces away from the bear’s snout, braced on the balls of her feet to jump back if she needed to, and watched it breathing, its eyes closed.

She debated what to do about the obstacle literally in her path, wondering if it was a good idea to speak to it or simply try to move along. Just as she was about to take another step closer, the bear spoke, making both her and Mouse gasp in surprise. “Hmm… so you are the mortal being hunted? And the small one is with you?” One of his eyes had opened ever so slightly, the pupil fixing on both Solona and Mouse in turn from underneath its half-closed eyelid.

Mouse was closer to Solona than she’d thought, his voice coming from somewhere near the hem of her robes. “I don’t like this. He may not help us, and if he does you might not like what he has to offer.”

The bear took no offense to Mouse’s skepticism, even if Mouse drew closer to Solona’s ankle for some semblance of protection. “No matter,” he drawled lazily, his voice deep and guttural. “The demon will get you eventually.”

His eye began to close again, and Solona decided to draw closer and get as much information out of the spirit as she could, since he seemed to know of her test. “What do you know about this demon?”

The bear heaved a long, groaning sigh, his body deflating and rising again as he drew in another breath before speaking. “I know that you will fail your test. Begone!” he grumped, shifting into a more comfortable position on the ground. “Surely you have better things to do than bother Sloth, mortal. I tire of you already,” he yawned, stretching his limbs until they popped, before his head settled down on his paw.

So the bear was a demon of sloth, but according to Mouse he was _not_ the demon she would have to face. That didn’t make him any less dangerous, however, and Solona studied him more intently before saying anything else. The way he was poised, even curled up around his paws, suggested that he was ready to rise quickly to his feet, and since he’d seemed so amused to startle both her and Mouse he had clearly only been pretending to be asleep; after all, one of the cautions taught in the Circle was that sloth demons were not actually slothful themselves, but many would exploit this commonly mistaken assumption.

Seeking the demon’s help would be just as risky as fighting the one waiting for her, but if he had any information to offer it could greatly increase her chances of passing her test and getting out of this nightmare. She ran her teeth over her lower lip, wincing as the sensation reminded her she’d bit it earlier, then exhaled in resignation. “Is there anything you can offer to help me?”

Both of Sloth’s eyes opened this time, bright and bloodshot, but very much alert. “Help you?” he chuckled, his powerful body shaking with mirth. “Nothing can help _you_.”

Mouse had crept out from under Solona’s robes, nearly sitting on her foot as he sniffed the air around Sloth. “He’s powerful,” he concluded, perching on his back paws. “It might be possible that he could… teach his shape.” He slunk a little away from Solona, stopping just behind her to her right while he kept his beady blue eyes on the bear.

The bear watched him in turn, waiting until Mouse stopped moving before looking over Solona as well. “It’s true that I am quite powerful in this form, when I wish to be,” he nodded, his confirmation sounding also very much like a warning. “However, most mortals are too attached to their forms to learn the change, especially in the small amount of time you have left. You, on the other hand, little one,” he continued, eyes traveling back to Mouse, “let go of the human form years ago.”

Solona looked down at Mouse, keeping Sloth in her periphery as she watched her guide twitch uncomfortably on the ground. “A bear isn’t very good for hiding,” he hesitated, rubbing his cheeks with his paws as he thought, “but… I might be able to help you fight the demon, provided I am given the _choice_ to do so.”

While this new development had merit, Solona was somewhat reluctant to welcome it: Mouse had already proved himself to be a questionable ally at best, and learning another form would give him more power to affect her test—for good or ill. She considered her encounter with the wolves, how two of them had nearly done her in before she’d even reached her waiting demon. “Your help _would_ be welcome,” she conceded softly, still holding onto all of her reservations about her shifty ally.

Mouse held her gaze, whiskers twitching as he ran over his own hidden thoughts, then he turned back to the sloth demon. “All right, I’ll… try. I’ll try to be a bear, if you’ll teach me.”

“Ah, that’s nice,” Sloth said, his voice oozing with smug laughter, “but teaching is so _exhausting_ , and you have given me no reason as of yet to make the attempt. Away with you now.” One of his paws twitched under his chin in dismissal, and his eyelids began to droop again.

This time, Mouse’s tail whipped the ground audibly. “I told you that you might not like the help he had to give,” he said, back to being sullen. “Maybe we should just move on.”

The sloth demon’s attention was caught again, his eyes opening to narrowed slits. “Very well, little one, if you wish to learn my form, then I have a challenge for you and your friend: answer three riddles correctly and I will teach you, fail and I will consume you both. The decision is yours to make.” He dozed as he waited for them to weigh the risks of his proposition, outwardly indifferent to the outcome.

“Riddles?” Solona asked, deadpan. “You’re joking.” Her soul pitted against three questions so a mouse could become a bear? She already had enough of these oddities in dreams when she _wasn’t_ in control of their outcome.

“Indeed not,” Sloth yawned, his eyes still closed. “Amusement is difficult to come by, and I shall take it in the place of your soul if I can.” The way one of his eyelids twitched, it was almost as if it _winked_ at her.

Solona stared at his winking eyelid for a moment, then shook her head and looked down at Mouse, who was simply waiting on her answer. Maybe answering riddles would be easier than a life-or-death struggle with a demon she still didn’t know much about beyond it _being_ a demon. She sighed and pushed her hair back away from her face yet again. “I can’t _believe_ I’m doing this,” she said under her breath. Then, “All right, I accept your challenge, Sloth.” _Please, don’t let me regret it more than I already do_.

“Truly? Well, this gets more and more promising.” The sloth demon cleared his throat, opening his eyes again to watch Solona as he challenged her. “My first riddle: ‘I have seas without water, coasts with no sand, towns without people, mountains without land. What am I?’”

Solona knew the answer before Sloth had finished the riddle, somewhat taken aback that it would be so easy and wondering if each question would be more and more difficult as they went. “A map,” she said quickly, relieved all the same that the first part of it was over.

Sloth cleared his throat again, this time in disappointment. “Hmm. Correct. The second riddle: ‘I am rarely touched, but often held. If you have wit, you’ll use me well. What am I?’”

Once again, Solona was put off by the riddle’s simplicity, particularly as every single enchanter in the Tower had at one point in Solona’s life either praised or cursed her for her outspokenness. “A tongue.” Would Sloth attack them once their backs were turned or was he really more invested in the distraction they provided him? Perhaps Sloth really was there to provide her with a better chance against the demon, and the riddles weren’t supposed to be too hard to puzzle out.

“Yes, your witty tongue,” Sloth yawned again, speaking as if he were verbally swatting away a hovering gnat. “Now, the last riddle: ‘Often will I spin the tale, never will I charge a fee. I’ll amuse you an entire eve, but alas, you won’t remember me. What am I?’”

Solona’s lips tilted in a small smile this time, acknowledging the dry humor in the demon’s riddle. “A dream,” she answered, her triumph and relief evident as she stood up straighter.

“Rather apropos, is it not?” Sloth chuckled again. “Very well, you’ve won my challenge and proven yourself an _amusing_ distraction.” He rose quickly to his feet for one who was supposed to be so weighed down by lethargy, and eyed Mouse from his higher vantage. “The symbol is simple enough, but it will no longer be so simple to remain unnoticed, little one.” His paw drew out a different sigil in the air from the one Mouse had demonstrated earlier, and he repeated the gesture once more for clarity before he dropped back down onto the ground.

Mouse wriggled around for awhile, much like he had before he’d revealed he was human, and just when Solona was beginning to think she’d put their lives in peril for nothing, Mouse exclaimed, “Like this!” before the expected light glowed around him and expanded. When it dissipated, Mouse was a black bear, his head level with Solona’s shoulders as he stood on all four powerful limbs. “Am I a bear?” he asked, looking down at his front paws.

Sloth’s grunt was noncommittal. “Close enough,” he confirmed, before closing his eyes and curling in a ball facing away from them. “Go and face your demon. I’m finished with you now.”

 _Gladly_ , Solona thought, too eager to get away from Sloth to issue a proper thank you, though whether it would have been for his help or for not devouring her soul she wasn’t sure. Of course, now she had to fight _another_ demon anyway… this test really was a nightmare, in every sense of the word. Mouse followed her past Sloth, his footfalls now louder and lumbering as he became accustomed to moving with so much more weight. “I feel… heavy,” he explained unnecessarily. “I’m not sure I like it.”

Solona’s eyes nearly rolled on their own, not as concerned about Mouse’s ability to fight her because she was turned away from him and he couldn’t see her face, and because he reminded her so much of Jowan now that all she could think about was how nothing seemed to be quite good enough for him. Before she could reassure or tease him, a howl echoed in the distance and both of them noticed another pack of wolves further ahead. “No time to figure it out now,” she hissed, not relishing the thought of being knocked down again.

Mouse hung back as the wolves rushed across the path, but when they had nearly halved the distance to them, he suddenly roared and charged, plowing into them with his bulk and sending a few of them scattering. He pinned one down with a huge paw and quickly broke its neck, and whipped out and knocked another wolf onto its back as it tried to flank him. While he was preoccupied with the majority of the pack, a couple of the wolves had recognized Solona as the easier target and resumed their previous charge, but Solona was ready and froze one where it stood, and stunned the other with spirit energy long enough for Mouse to finish off the rest of the wolves and offer his assistance.

Solona watched as Mouse sank his teeth into the last wolf’s spine, yanking him savagely from side to side until it yelped in pain, its back snapping, and he dropped the beast unceremoniously on the ground. She’d given him power to assist her, but now he definitely posed another problem: what _would_ happen if Mouse turned on her? She had no illusions about his existence in the Fade, and whether he was truly killed for taking too long in his Harrowing or for failing against a demon (if he’d ever really been an apprentice at all), the fact remained that he was a spirit.

Mouse had ambled back to her as she considered him, his mouth hanging open and panting in excitement. “I’ve never done that before,” he said proudly. “Perhaps being a bear isn’t so troublesome after all. And _you_ helped me get this power.” His large blue eyes gleamed. “If only you had the time to learn such magic now, with a talent like yours; you’d be quite a force against the templars, that’s for certain—not that they wouldn’t claim you _unnatural_ and cut you down long before then.”

Solona hummed neutrally and began walking again, and now Mouse matched her pace so they continued side by side. Mouse was also far more talkative now, expressing more of his disapproval for templars. “They’re so quick to label you a blood mage, you see, simply for learning just a _little_ too much, and perhaps there’s just a small chance that you _might_ become an abomination.” His words dripped with contempt, his paws fell heavier against the ground, and a growl had slipped into his speech. “And of course once they’ve accused you of blood magic, there’s no convincing them otherwise, and they simply kill you on sight.”

Rather than risk his ire or betray her still growing doubts about him, Solona remarked, “You’re starting to sound a little crazy there, Mouse,” keeping her voice light and airy.

Mouse cut off, stumbling just a little. “Am I? I’m sorry,” he apologized, his gait returning to its previous near-bumbling. “It just isn’t right, what the templars are allowed to do. I had always heard of those who turned apostate, hunted and constantly running, but _free_.” He sounded so despondent that Solona nearly placed her hand on his sinuous back in sympathy, but she caught herself and rubbed the singes on her robes again instead. _Remember to_ think _first, Solona_.

They trekked along in silence for awhile, encountering no more enemies, and after they came around two more bends in the path, it dawned on Solona that she recognized where they were—they’d somehow managed to come back full-circle. “Wait… we’ve been here before, haven’t we?”

“Hmm?” Mouse asked, distracted. “Oh, yes, I told you already: there is only forward. You need only wait for the demon to manifest.”

Solona’s teeth ground together in irritation. “Any idea where that might be?” Or when: if what Mouse had already told her was true, she couldn’t simply walk around in circles forever.

“It _could_ be anywhere, but it usually shows itself there,” he directed, stopping so he could point one of his paws toward a clearing not too far away, one that Solona was fairly certain hadn’t been there when they’d first passed this part of the path. As they came closer to it, a patch in the ground seemed to burn like the embers of a fire, and sure enough as Solona stopped in front of the clearing and watched, the cinders seemed to coalesce and rise out of the ground in an amorphous, burning mass. 

“And there is a spirit of rage,” Mouse supplied, again stating the obvious—granted, he sounded just as stricken as Solona felt; even if rage demons were taught to be the weakest in Brahm’s hierarchy, it was still a threat to a mage who had never even seen one before. There was still another concern niggling in the back of her mind again, reminding her of the first enchanter’s warning, as well as Mouse’s words: powerful, _cunning_.

The rage demon emerged fully from the ground, sparks still erupting from its body as it moved toward them, mimicking a snake as it slithered. There were two glowing slits in its already bright body, most likely serving for eyes, and as they seemed to fix on her a terrible, crackling laugh came out of a gaping hole that had to be its maw. “And so it comes to me at last,” it gasped, just barely able to form words—it was more like the awkward shaping of vowels than actual speech. “And will your eyes be the ones through which I’ll see the land of the living?”

Its words were meant to intimidate, and with the intense heat radiating from its molten form, Solona was less sure of her abilities than she had been a moment ago. That didn’t mean she was just going to stand there and let it take her, however. “It’s two against one, you realize?” The authority in her tone was less of a façade now, her repulsion of the rage demon bolstering her courage.

“Amusing,” the demon choked out, its long, snake-like head twisting to face Mouse. “I see it has no idea of our… arrangement.”

Before Solona could react to this information, Mouse scoffed and lifted his head higher, his posture defiant. “We don’t have an arrangement! And I’m not a mouse any longer,” he growled, the familiar action of him rising onto his haunches now dwarfing Solona. “I don’t need your protection anymore!” he roared.

“We shall see.” The demon charged, darting forward alarmingly fast, and its arms lashed out and almost set the sleeve of Solona’s robes on fire. She backtracked, nearly tripping over her own feet, and hastily threw an ice spell in an effort to slow him down. Mouse used the window of opportunity to throw himself forward, his paws slamming into the rage demon’s body and sending it reeling back, roaring again as he did so and making the ground underneath Solona’s feet tremor.

The demon was temporarily stunned, but before Solona could take advantage, she was struck from behind by another bolt of despair: the rage demon had summoned wisps to its aid. “Take care of the demon,” Solona ordered when Mouse turned as if to attack the wisps. “I’ll pick off the rest.” She took out her attacker and the wisp behind it with fire before either could retreat, then whipped around and froze another that had appeared to the left of the demon, which was alert again and battling Mouse.

She hit the rage demon with an arcane bolt, further distracting it, but another wisp materialized as she was preoccupied and attacked Mouse, drawing a bellow of agony from him before Solona could freeze it. The moment cost Mouse a heavy blow from the rage demon’s arm, and his fur smoked and sparked as embers sank in to his skin and set him aflame. He bellowed again, this time in pain, and Solona couldn’t afford to aid him as the rage demon’s attention had returned to her. She threw another arcane bolt, but it was hardly fazed this time, still slithering toward her; in a moment of panic, she waved frantically, summoning a power she’d never used confidently before, and hit the demon with a pulse of lightning.

While her adversary was put off again by this new magic, Solona quickly gathered cold energy once more, hitting the demon, but also aiming to put out Mouse’s smoldering fur. Mouse roared, the power of it resonating in Solona’s core, and slammed again into the rage demon, this time overpowering it and bearing it to the ground, his powerful jaws ripping into the mass of the demon’s throat until it screamed in agony and seemed to melt into the ground, defeated. Mouse dropped onto his belly, burying his snout into his forearms, his pants all but sobs as he tried to ease the pain of his burned mouth.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Solona said softly, hands outstretched as she approached him. “I don’t know how to help—I’m not good at healing.” She knelt down next to him, placing her hand on his side to provide some form of comfort. Even if she didn’t trust his motives, especially after learning that he had betrayed past apprentices in their Harrowings, Mouse had still just essentially cooked himself in his efforts to help her. It _was_ strange though, how even with the demon dead, Solona still remained in the Fade; wasn’t the binding spell supposed to lift once her test was completed?

She risked a glance around her, searching for a sign of the rage demon or some other possible threat, but she was alone in the clearing… with Mouse. Her teeth gritted with the effort to make sure her movements were slow and steady as she withdrew her hand and took a step back. “The rage demon wasn’t my _real_ test, was it?” she asked, frost emitting from her fingers almost unconsciously.

Mouse stopped panting, and as she moved back further, he pushed himself up onto his feet, light encompassing him until he stood before her as a man. This time his eyes were disturbingly hollow, his smile more of a sneer. “You _are_ a smart one, aren’t you?” he drawled, standing taller than he had before in an air of superiority. When he spoke next, his voice changed, deep and sinister, discordant in a throat unsuited for his true form. “Simple killing is a warrior’s job. The real dangers of the Fade are preconception, careless trust— _pride_.”

He raised his arms, summoning the energy to change his form yet again, and Solona watched as the column of light grew to something over twice her size. When the light faded, Mouse was huge and horned, a spirit boasting power that Solona couldn’t hope to defeat as an apprentice—a pride demon. The ice around her fingertips seemed to rebound into her veins, chilling her blood as her eyes widened in fear and disbelief— _the Circle wouldn’t actually summon and bind a pride demon, would they_?

Mouse laughed, the sound jarring Solona back to the present and making her snap to attention, ready to fight him in whatever way she could. Mouse’s strange lips twisted upward and he leaned forward, patronizing and intimidating, as if he were about to pat her on the head with his giant hand—or crush her like a bug. “Keep your wits about you, mage,” he offered, his advice somehow mocking and indifferent at the same time.

As he continued to speak to her, Solona felt an odd pull from behind her navel, a tug of power that seeped into the rest of her awareness and made her vision foggy, indistinct. “True tests never end.” Mouse’s voice sounded too far away, and suddenly Solona was falling through the ground, and she screamed, sinking through what seemed to be the swirling vapor of a Fade portal…


	3. it's true ignorance is bliss

Solona awoke with a start, jolting underneath the blankets as her hands clutched fistfuls of the sheet underneath her; her equilibrium felt off, her body convinced she was falling out of her bed. She deliberately flexed her fingers, rubbing them against threadbare flannel to reassure her reeling head that she was indeed lying flat on a stable mattress. Gradually, her heart stopped racing, but the room continued to tilt and she closed her eyes and breathed in deeply through her nose to quell the wave of nausea that had risen in her stomach.

She burrowed her head deeper into her pillow, trying to find a better angle to support the throbbing pain weighing down the right side of her skull, and continued to breathe in through her nose and out through her mouth. Her clothes clung uncomfortably to her skin as if she’d been sweating heavily, but she knew she wasn’t feverish; somehow, she knew this migraine was a side effect, not an illness—she just couldn’t quite remember what had happened. She was on the brink of recollection, but her thoughts were hazy, jumbled by exhaustion.

“Solona?” Gwynlian’s voice was soft, distant. Solona reluctantly opened her eyes and turned her face away from the pillow, spotting Gwynlian’s blue eyes peeking around the corner of another bunk at the opposite end of the room; she’d been talking to someone else, but now she hurried over to Solona’s bedside, looking worried. “How are you feeling?”

Solona opened her mouth, but promptly closed it when the room started tilting again, threatening to tip her friend across the floor and into the wall. She shut her eyes and groaned, her throat dry and her tongue swollen. She felt Gwynlian’s cool hand on her forehead, feeling for a fever that wasn’t there, and then her fingers smoothed Solona’s bangs away from her face, threading through hair stringy from cold sweat as she hummed low under her breath.

“You’ve been asleep all day,” she informed quietly, her voice barely above a whisper and gentle on Solona’s over-sensitive ears. “It’s just past three now.” Solona risked opening her eyes again, studying the girl kneeling in front of her as her fingers continued to soothe her scalp. Gwynlian’s eyes were dark, unsettled, and her face was paler than usual, as if something had disturbed her. “You were moaning, like something awful had happened.” She paused, then cleared her throat and stilled her hand, her fine brows drawn over an equally fine nose in her concern. “Do you need anything?”

Solona blinked, tried to swallow a few times. “Water,” she eventually croaked, closing her eyes again when the dizziness was too much to handle—at least the apprentices’ quarters had no windows or she would have had to contend with the sun’s light bearing down on her as well.

Gwynlian’s finger lightly tapped the top of her scalp, confirming her request, and then she leaned in close to whisper in Solona’s ear, “Have you been in contact with lyrium?”

 _Lyrium_. Solona’s eyes snapped open again, the events of the night before stringing themselves together in a rush that made her head scream in protest. Her Harrowing… the Fade… a _pride demon_ … “Fuck.” She brought her hand up to her mouth to feel her lower lip—the flesh was bruised, broken underneath her fingertips.

“Ssh.” Gwynlian rose to her feet, still bending over to keep their conversation as private as possible in a room full of girls who had the rest of the day to themselves and not much to do except gossip. “I’m going to go see if I can get some elfroot from Denri—it will help ease the effects, as long as you take it easy… for once.”

Her hand left its position in Solona’s hair, and Solona smiled weakly. “Gwyn, the healer.” This time Gwynlian’s shush was teasing, and she flashed her a grin before turning on her heel and hurrying to the boys’ dorm to bribe the infamous hoarder for a couple of handfuls of dried root pieces; with luck, Denri’s fee wouldn’t be too steep or Solona would just insist on doing without—but she really hoped she wouldn’t have to.

Her stomach roiled in agreement, provoking another wave of dizziness, and just as Solona was about to close her eyes again and doze while Gwynlian haggled, she heard a heavier set of footsteps hurry in her direction. She instinctively knew who they belonged to. “Jowan. Sleep well?” Her voice made her wince, sounding more akin to a frog than herself.

“I saw them bring you in this morning,” Jowan said, wavering uncertainly in the doorway for a moment before approaching, his hands awkward at his sides as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I didn’t realize you’d been gone all night… are you all right?” He stopped just short of her bedside, peering down through the fringe of his long black hair as he shifted his weight back and forth, as if seeing her ill made him uncomfortable.

His concern was something refreshingly unexpected after so many years of only coming to her when he needed something, and Solona’s smile was genuine, if still weak. “Peachy,” she rasped, untwisting her legs so she could rotate onto her side. “And yourself?”

Jowan met her smile with a small one of his own, and he dropped down to sit cross-legged on the rug, sighing in relief. “I’m glad you’re all right. What was it like?” His rather botched attempt at a segue was not lost on Solona, and her initial pleasant surprise dropped quickly to disappointed familiarity; he may have been glad that she returned, but he was here to wheedle information on the Harrowing.

He noticed her change in mood, and his smile likewise slipped into something less easy. “I know we’re not supposed to know anything, but just give me a little hint.” Solona wavered, weighing Circle rules and her general annoyance with Jowan against the sometimes overwhelming anxiety every apprentice experienced over the Harrowing; that and past experience dictating that Jowan wouldn’t shut up about it until she relented.

“I had to enter the Fade,” she supplied—her brush with lyrium would be just as evident to Jowan, after all.

Jowan’s blue eyes were sharp as he studied her expression, and he seemed to be close to literally chewing on his thoughts as his lips pursed. “Really?” he prompted as they both remained silent for awhile, and his scrutiny brought Solona another wave of nausea and a particularly savage spike of pain behind her right eye. “That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s pretty much it,” Solona said, terse out of annoyance just as much as the rising urge to vomit.

Unaware of the danger to his shoes, Jowan seemed to draw in on himself, sulking. “And now you get to move upstairs.” When Solona had neither the desire nor the ability to stroke his ego, he continued bitterly, “I’ve been here longer than _you_ have; sometimes I think they just don’t _want_ to test me.” His face elongated into a pout when Solona continued to remain silent, and he muttered, “Irving said he wanted to see you when you woke up,” before pushing himself up onto his feet.

“What for?” Solona asked around a long exhale, trying to calm her stomach.

“Probably to congratulate you on your Harrowing.” Jowan folded his arms across his chest, frowning down at Solona as if she’d personally sought a show of praise from the first enchanter; it usually fell to the mentors to present newly Harrowed mages with robes and a staff, so Irving taking over the responsibility was… unusual, to say the least. It also meant Solona would have to walk to his office.

She groaned and covered her face with the crook of her elbow, and Gwynlian chose that moment to return to the girls’ dorm. “Jowan,” she sighed in exasperation, the soles of her shoes quickly padding along the stone floor. “She _just_ woke up a moment ago.” She edged past him, trying to bodily shoo him away, and Jowan finally seemed to remember that Solona wasn’t at her best.

“We’ll… speak later,” he said lamely, gesturing aimlessly with his hands as he backed out of the room. “I hope you feel better, Solona.”

Solona waved in his direction with her free arm, the other one still shielding her head from further stress. Gwynlian sat down at the foot of her bed, the mattress barely dipping under her slight weight, and held her hand just over Solona’s protected face until she lowered her arm. When she had Solona’s attention, she handed her the proffered cup of water and dropped a cloth pouch onto her chest.

Solona looked down along her nose at it, smelling the somewhat astringent scent of elfroot. When her eyes began to cross, she propped herself up against her pillow, holding the pouch in place against her chest with one hand while she accepted the water with the other, too thirsty to sip like she should have and instead gulping all of it down in one go. “Thanks,” she gasped, handing the cup back to Gwynlian so she could tug open the drawstring on the pouch and pop one of the roots into her mouth.

“Try not to finish off the pouch in a day, all right?” Gwynlian said lightly. Solona stopped sucking on the elfroot to ask how much Denri had deemed it worth, but Gwynlian dismissed her with a wave. “Don’t worry about Denri. He _was_ practically salivating… until I said it was for you. Then he all but _gave_ it to me.” She grinned conspiratorially, drawing closer on the bed so she could stage whisper, “I think he has a crush on you.”

Solona snorted, nearly choking on the root in her mouth, and she tucked it securely underneath her tongue before speaking. “He’s _afraid_ of me, Gwyn,” she corrected amiably. “He wouldn’t trade me a bundle of deathroot a few years back until I wrote an entire essay for him.”

“…Wait… I remember that. Is that the one that Senior Enchanter Cyril read out loud as an example of what _not_ to do when working with summoning fonts?” Gwynlian laughed, covering her mouth with the back of her hand and glancing at the door as if Denri would burst in and take the elfroot away if he heard her.

Solona grinned wickedly. “He tried to corner me later, so I told him he could take up my lack of effort with Cyril—he chose to let it go.” She chewed on the tip of the elfroot; the plant would only dull the ache, but she was grateful for the respite all the same if it meant being able to have a conversation without upsetting her stomach.

“Well, I still think I’m right about the crush—some men _like_ women who can slap them down.” Solona felt her cheeks flush, her fair complexion betraying her embarrassment, and Gwynlian laughed again, no trace of malice in her smile; where she was shamelessly boy-crazy, Solona had always been reserved when it came to trysts in the Tower. She was less inclined to act on attraction like it was some kind of game to play when the templars weren’t watching, when to her it all seemed so… personal. Not to mention she’d known all of the boys since they were little seven-year-olds who still picked their noses in plain view, making it somewhat difficult for her to even be attracted to any of them in the first place.

Solona cleared her throat and made a grab for another topic, finding the drama of Circle romances as unappealing and depressing as ever. “How did the Creation test go?” she asked, and then as the thought occurred to her, “Where’s Wreda, anyway?” She looked around as if expecting to find Wreda standing there with her hands on her hips, peeved that it had taken Solona so long to notice her presence, but she wasn’t in the room.

Then she noticed Gwynlian’s awkward shift at the foot of her bed, watched the way she thumbed at the blankets. “The test went fine, I think. For both of us.” Her reluctance to address Solona’s second question was obvious, and Solona kicked out underneath the covers to tap her foot against Gwynlian’s thigh. “She stormed out of the room this morning,” she explained hesitantly. “I don’t think she’s jealous, I think she’s just afraid you’ll stop talking to her, now that you’re moving upstairs.”

Solona sighed deeply and looked up at the slats of the bed above hers, resigned to the simple fact that she was going to have to walk around the tower—at least for a little while, and then she’d be able to try sleeping off the effects of the lyrium. She bit down on the elfroot again, estimating that she’d be able to manage the trip up to Irving’s office, provided she wouldn’t have to do much else. “All right, I’ve got places to be,” she said, as much to herself as Gwynlian, and kicked out again until her friend stood up, allowing her room to roll out of the bed and onto her feet.

She tucked the pouch of elfroot between the baseboard and the mattress of the bed above hers, ignoring a disapproving tsk from Gwynlian; crafting supplies weren’t forbidden to apprentices, but they still had to be logged whenever taken and considering Denri’s “business,” she doubted there was any record of two handfuls of elfroot and she didn’t want to get Gwynlian or herself in trouble. With her stash squared away, she did a quick once-over of her robes: no singe marks present, but they were wrinkled and hung awkwardly from her upper body after what must have been a night of tossing and turning. She tugged them as straight as she could, not too concerned with their appearance—the whole purpose of her going up to Irving’s office was to receive new ones anyway.

Gwynlian reached out and fluffed up one side of Solona’s hair, trying to get back some of the volume it had lost while she was sleeping, but deemed it futile after a few tries. “I don’t know why he couldn’t wait until tomorrow,” she murmured. “The other apprentices usually get a whole day to sleep, don’t they?”

Solona frowned, chewing on the inside of her cheek. They usually _did_ , and the mentors would breeze by and advise the other apprentices to give them peace and quiet while they slept until a bed was prepared for them upstairs. She had already been puzzled by Irving’s summons, but now she was beginning to feel a little apprehensive as well; he wasn’t necessarily an intimidating man, but years as Ferelden’s First Enchanter had led him to think of the Circle more as a cause, and he usually only made shows of praise when he wished to shine light on the Circle’s progress—the last thing Solona needed was more mages resenting her success at not getting herself killed.

“Are you going to be able to make it?” Gwynlian broke into her musings. Solona nodded, slowly, then reached for the pouch and pulled out one more root before slipping it back into its hiding place. She cupped the elfroot in her curled fingers, effectively keeping it out of sight but still easily accessible if she needed to replace the one she already had in her mouth. “Okay,” Gwynlian conceded, “but really, Solona, take it easy, okay?”

“As pie.” Solona’s tone bordered on sardonic, having every intention of not aggravating her migraine, but knowing that the Tower and its people often foiled the very best of intentions. For some reason, she thought of Jowan and the look on his face when he’d said they’d talk later, how he’d been particularly twitchy as he sat on the floor in front of her. She shook her head, banishing her sudden sense of foreboding, and flashed Gwynlian what she hoped was a reassuring grin. “I’ll be back soon.”

Her trip through the library was fairly uneventful, marked only by Rhys nearly wetting himself as he pitted his anti-magic ward against an enchanter’s fireball; normally, Solona would have been able to join the audience of fellow apprentices, but today many of them eyed her with the awe, envy, anxiety that she had also felt before when watching another of her peers ascend. The Circle, despite its best efforts to instill a sense of fellowship, bred competition amongst its mages while the ever-vigilant templars brought out suspicion, mistrust.

When she was young, the enormity of life in the Tower still hadn’t quite sunk in, and she made friends she assumed would be for life; as she grew older, a lifetime in the Tower started to register and too many of her friends became simple peers, colleagues. Now Wreda was pulling away—even if she wasn’t envious of Solona’s progress, her desperation to get out was too keen, her only comfort knowing that her friends were just as stuck as she was. Solona feared for her, but she was certain that a mage as talented as Wreda would be able to pass her Harrowing and put in a request for an outside assignment.

Besides, the true impact of the Harrowing wasn’t the use of lyrium or a battle with a demon, it was the knowledge of just what the Circle was willing to do to its apprentices to test their resolve—the measures they took to appease the overbearing Chantry. Solona recalled the hopelessness in Anders’ eyes the day after his Harrowing, that eventual resolve that he was on his own. She wasn’t sure how Wreda would react to that shock.

By the time Solona made it to the second floor landing, she had to lean against the banister to catch her breath, her head and stomach protesting the exertion of simply climbing stairs. She chewed vigorously on the elfroot, refusing to throw up in plain sight, especially since the nearby Tranquil in the stockroom would drop whatever they were doing to clean up the mess; the last thing she wanted was a bunch of monotone men and women telling her it was their duty to keep the Circle’s stores clean as they scurried around on the floor. The thought left a bad taste in her mouth that the elfroot couldn’t quite overcome, and Solona pushed away from the stairs, as determined to get away from the Tranquil and the dark reminder they posed as she was to get through her meeting with the first enchanter.

As she drew closer to Irving’s office, she heard that there were already people in the room, and judging from the steadily rising volume of the voice she recognized as Greagoir’s, they were arguing—or rather, they were arguing _again_. Honestly, the first enchanter and knight-commander fought so often that Greagoir walked around with a permanent scowl etched into his features, and just bringing up mages’ rights set Irving’s brows in grim determination. Solona halted beside the doorway, wondering if she should intrude.

She leaned her weight against the wall, tilting her head so her right cheek rested on cool stone, and listened for a moment: “Most of our senior enchanters are already at Ostagar!” She heard the heavy plate of Greagoir’s armor clank as he grew increasingly agitated. “Sending any more of our own to this war effort will leave the Tower virtually defenseless—”

“‘Your own?’” Irving’s tone was calmer than Greagoir’s, but wry, deliberately goading. “Since when have _you_ felt such kinship with the mages, Greagoir? Do you truly think us incapable of handling matters here, or are you afraid to let the mages actually use their _Maker-given_ powers without Chantry supervision?”

From the sound of things, this was going to go on for some time and Solona was in no mood to wait. She pushed away from the wall and stepped into the doorway of Irving’s office just as Greagoir began to tell Irving what he thought of his insinuations. While she was used to their seemingly constant disagreements, she was _not_ prepared for the third party present in the room, standing off to the side with his arms folded as he observed the two men in front of him. He looked important, not from the sheen of his armor or any particular show of station, but from the way he carried himself: straight and alert, diplomatic but preoccupied with matters of his own.

Not to mention he was in the room while the knight-commander and first enchanter squabbled over a war; was he another herald of the king’s? He looked too well-armed and authoritative to simply be a messenger. As Solona studied him, she realized he had noticed her arrival as he stepped closer, cutting off Greagoir’s angry protests. “Gentlemen, please. Irving, I believe someone is here to see you.” He stood between them and gestured toward Solona, bringing their attention to her as she shifted awkwardly in the doorway, thumbing her robes and cursing herself for wearing them when they were so wrinkled—even if they were the only ones she had at the moment.

Solona cleared her throat, then realized the piece of elfroot was still on her tongue and, after a moment, swallowed it. She pushed down at the material over her thighs with her palms before folding her arms over her chest, mimicking the visitor’s earlier posture as she made a conscious effort to stop fidgeting. “You sent for me?” she explained as everyone in the room remained silent, unable to keep her eyes from darting back to the strange man in the room.

He was watching her with a particular interest she wasn’t sure she liked, especially when Irving’s greeting implied that he had intended to introduce them—as Gwynlian had pointed out, it _was_ unusual for the first enchanter to welcome a new mage to the Circle. As Solona wondered if Irving was going to embarrass her with praise she wasn’t sure she deserved, Greagoir sucked in a breath through his teeth before saying tersely, “You’re obviously busy. We will talk later.” He brushed past Irving, and as he passed Solona she thought she caught a look of… sympathy? Regret?

Before Solona could properly think it over, Irving waved her attention to the man next to him and said, “This is Duncan, of the Grey Wardens.” Solona’s eyes widened, almost of their own accord, and she let her arms drop to her sides, feeling her previous stance was disrespectful, but now faced with the problem of not knowing exactly _what_ to do with her hands. She remained tongue-tied in her uncertainty, wondering why a Warden had traveled all the way from Ostagar simply to recruit for the king’s army. Covering for her silence, Irving went on, albeit with a little stutter, “You’ve heard about the war brewing in the south? He has come to invite more mages to aid King Cailan’s campaign.”

Both men continued to watch her intently, and Solona gradually caught on that they were still waiting on her to say something. “Er… pleased to meet you,” she offered lamely, unsure of just what Irving wanted of her and just a little peeved that she was expected to do more than accept her robes and go back to sleep. “Is… that all you wanted of me?”

Irving stammered again and Solona caught a hint of disappointment turning down the corners of his mouth, even if it was mostly hidden by his impressive beard. “Of course not,” he chuckled, his gaze darting to his right to look at Duncan every so often. “I wanted to congratulate you on your test.” He turned and sidled around his desk, maneuvering through the stacks of books, papers, and magical odds and ends cluttering his office.

He brushed a sheaf of paperwork aside, revealing a staff and folded, orange Circle robes. He picked them up and shuffled back to Solona, knocking over an old brass scale with the staff in his effort to avoid catching the robes on a corner of the desk. He paused for a moment to assess the damage done to the scale. “Blasted… er, right. Here are your robes, your staff, and—” He fished around in his pocket for something, then, “—a ring bearing the Circle’s insignia. Your belongings are being moved upstairs to the mages’ quarters as we speak, and you will be able to settle in as soon as you like.”

Solona accepted her reward, reluctant to voice her displeasure with her run-in with the pride demon in front of Duncan, but she refrained from thanking Irving as well, merely nodding and letting him interpret her silence as he saw fit. Solona managed to slip the ring onto the little finger of her right hand, noting the runes carved in the band and the light buzzing of energy they emitted against her skin. She bit back a grimace, rotating the ring on her finger with her thumb until she grew accustomed to the feeling; she’d never been one for rings, particularly rings inscribed with power.

Irving continued to speak to her while she was preoccupied with the burden in her arms, stepping back so he was once again level with Duncan, whose piercing brown eyes were still fixed on her. “Your phylactery has been sent to Denerim, and you are now an official sister of the Circle.”

Even a Grey Warden’s presence couldn’t quite stay Solona’s tongue, and she muttered, “My leash, you mean,” before she could help herself. Oddly enough, Duncan’s eyes warmed as she spoke, and Solona could have sworn the corner of his lips twitched upward in a smirk, as if he approved of her honesty.

The first enchanter, however, looked resigned. “Come, it’s not that bad.” His reassurance was half-hearted, as if he not only expected Solona to disagree, but also shared in her distaste.

“I’m sorry, but what are these ‘phylacteries?’” Duncan asked, finally looking away from Solona, who’d been trying to discern his expression—she bit her lip in annoyance and immediately winced and tried to surreptitiously lick at the wound.

Before she could supply her own opinions on the nature of phylacteries, Irving silenced her with a minimal shake of his head. “Blood is taken from all apprentices when they first come to the tower and preserved in special vials,” he explained, glossing over the specifics, but failing to mention how terrifying it was to a young girl who’d been ripped away from home and brought to a lone tower on an island, where someone waited almost at the door with a glass tube and informed her she was to fill it with her blood. _Way to make a girl feel welcome_.

“So they can be hunted if they turn apostate,” Duncan finished, his tone grim and matter-of-fact. Solona silently added, _by using blood magic_ , as she found the templars’ practice of phylacteries to be very similar to the forbidden art; since the Chantry deemed them necessary in keeping track of the mages, they were approved.

Irving sighed, a frown accentuating the age lines around his features. “We have few choices. We must do what we can to prove we are strong enough to handle our power responsibly.” Duncan appeared nearly just as doubtful as the two mages in the room.

The topic alone was making Solona nauseous, her anxiety worsening her migraine, and she said just a little impatiently, “What now?”

“Patience, child,” Irving smiled apologetically, getting back to the small ceremony that came with becoming a Harrowed mage. “I trust you will not reveal secrets of the Harrowing with those who have not gone through the rite? Now, take your time to rest; the day is yours.”

“If you’ll excuse me, First Enchanter, I think I’ll return to my quarters as well,” Duncan bowed slightly, and he was already beginning to turn away when Irving’s eyes settled on Solona, appraising her again as he had earlier.

Solona had a feeling what was coming even before Irving opened his mouth to ask, “Would you be so kind as to escort Duncan to his room, child?”

 _So much for the day being mine_. Her migraine resumed its pulsing behind her right eye, and she nearly reached up to cover it with the palm of her hand. “Does Duncan not know where his rooms are?” she asked, feigning innocence, and once again Duncan’s eyes honed in on her and seemed to take note of what Enchanter Iva called her “damned impertinence.” Before Irving could reprimand her in front of a Grey Warden, Solona clicked her tongue and sighed, “All right, all right.” Then under her breath as she left the office, “After all, there’s only _one_ guest room on this floor and it’s _right_ across from your office…”

She registered Duncan’s heavier footfalls almost directly to her right as he caught up to her, and she wondered if he’d heard all or most of her rant. Not wanting him to feel unwelcome amongst the mages, she asked, “What’s going on outside the Tower?”

Duncan hummed, scratching his beard and looking at her sidelong as they walked slowly along the hall—more because of Solona’s worsening headache than any desire for small talk. “I imagine you are not permitted to leave often?” Solona’s scoff was enough of an answer for him, and he nodded in understanding. “I’m not a good source of news, I fear. I’ve been preoccupied with the darkspawn incursion.”

Solona stamped down on her impulse to point out that _any_ news was more than what she was regularly privy to, and instead remarked, “I’ve heard of darkspawn ambushes on the outskirts of the wilds, but… an entire _horde_?”

Duncan hummed again, nodding grimly. “It’s true, darkspawn do attack the surface in ragtag bands, but this time an army is amassing in the south, and if their forces aren’t stopped they will strike north.” He hesitated for a moment, as if unsure about divulging too much information to a mage who had just risen out of apprenticeship, then continued, “I came here to seek the first enchanter’s approval to place a mage or two in every contingent; the darkspawn have magic of their own, a kind similar to blood magic.” Solona’s eyes darted to the side to scrutinize Duncan as surreptitiously as possible as he went on, “The threat they pose is greater than maleficarum or even abominations… I wish the knight-commander would see that.”

Such sheer numbers of darkspawn was a hard concept to grasp, Solona admitted, and while Duncan’s urgency was enough to convince her that the danger in the south was all too real, she also remembered Greagoir’s argument: the Circle would be weak against attacks, from outside and within, if many more mages left for Ostagar. While she kept her thoughts quiet, Duncan added, “Mages could make all the difference in this war: they heal, and call ice and fire down upon the enemy, and… ah,” he chuckled at himself, hanging his head. “Listen to me, with an old man’s ranting.”

Solona shrugged, flashing him a crooked grin. “I’m a Circle mage; I’m used to it.” Duncan’s laugh was brief, but seemed genuine, tapering off as they passed the stockroom, and his eyes fixed on the mages within, nearly automatic as they performed their various duties. “What do you think of the Tranquil?” Solona asked, still watching him shrewdly.

“I suppose it keeps them—and those around them—safe, but I cannot say if such a solution is truly necessary,” Duncan answered, his response honest, but neutral. When Solona perfectly mimicked one of his hums, he chuckled again, then said, “I once saw blood magic firsthand—even if from a distance—when a mage turned a band of templars against each other. It was… dreadful to behold, but I don’t know if this is enough to sever an innocent’s connection to the Fade.”

Solona nodded, satisfied with his answer, and decided that while she didn’t know enough about him to genuinely like him just yet, she _did_ respect him. They approached the guest quarters, and sure enough Duncan knew exactly where they were, as he drew to a stop in front of the door. “Thank you for walking with me,” he said, a hint of apology in his tone as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. “I’ll leave you to your business now.”

“I… uh… that is, my pleasure,” said Solona, scratching at the back of her head just behind her ear while she balanced her robes and staff in her other arm; she’d never been good with handling gratitude, even when it was only a formality. “I’ll… see you around.” She bobbed her head, unsure if the action was a nod or some weird kind of bow, and nearly tripped over her own feet as she pivoted to walk two doors over to see if her new bed was ready.

She heard Duncan close the door behind her, and she almost immediately slipped the second elfroot piece into her mouth, looking forward to sleeping for the rest of the day. She peered into the quarters reserved for those who had just been initiated, scanning the room for a space that looked relatively empty, and concluded that the bed at the far right was hers. She leaned her new staff against the side of the nearby wardrobe and opened one of the doors so she could hang her robes inside.

“Are you done talking with Irving?”

Solona nearly jumped into the wardrobe as Jowan’s voice came from almost directly behind her, instead digging her nails into the already-nicked wood and slowly turning her head to face him. “Were you following me?” she demanded, certain that Jowan’s timing was too perfect.

“Does it matter?” he responded evasively, and while Solona might have answered yes, as sneaking around behind her drew the notice of templars, he pressed on, “I have to talk to you. Do you remember what we were discussing this morning?”

“Jowan, can’t this _wait_?” Solona asked, exasperated as she looked down at the bed that was just there, waiting for her… especially now that the frustration Jowan usually brought with him was already making her temples throb.

“No, I need you to listen,” Jowan insisted softly, his eyes darting around for eavesdroppers. “We should go somewhere else.”

“Andraste’s _ass_ , Jowan, this better be fucking important,” Solona hissed, opening the wardrobe to grab her new robes—if she was still going to be running around the tower, then Jowan was going to damn well wait for her to change into something less wrinkled and worn. Her glare as she strode over to the changing screen ensured that Jowan kept any complaints he might have had to himself. She shimmied out of the blue robes that had been altered over and over again until they threatened to fall apart, yanked her nightdress off over her head, and quickly pulled on her new robes before the cold could reach her skin.

When she stepped back out from behind the screen, she noted the brief flash of jealousy that twisted Jowan’s mouth before he jerked his head and motioned for her to follow him. “You do realize all of this whispering and skulking is more suspicious than just _talking about it_?” Solona asked wryly. Jowan opened his mouth, as if he were about to retort or at least tell her to shut up, but then he snapped it closed again and shook his head minimally, silently leading them along the corridor; honestly, sometimes Solona believed their relationship would improve immensely if Jowan would just _say what was on his mind_ once in awhile.

Solona became increasingly puzzled as Jowan led her into the chapel, of all places, particularly when he approached a familiar sister: the girl Solona had seen the night before. “We can speak here,” Jowan announced. Solona pinned him and the sister with another shrewd gaze, unwilling to draw things out when she had no more elfroot to spare unless she went back downstairs; not to mention Jowan thought they could discuss a problem in _the chapel_ , the templars’ favorite haunt.

“A few months ago I told you I… met a girl,” Jowan fumbled. “Uh… this is Lily.” Solona merely raised an eyebrow as she folded her arms against her chest, waiting for him to continue and silently swearing that if he only brought her here to show off his new girlfriend, she’d set his robes on fire—a fair trade for the numerous times he’d singed her hair, back when she used to let it grow long.

Lily offered a timid smile while Jowan looked uncomfortably at each of them in turn, but both continued to simply stand there and wait for Solona to say something. She bit down on her cheek as well as the root tucked away toward the back of her mouth, reminding herself that starting fires in the chapel was generally frowned upon, even if there were braziers lit everywhere the eye could see. “My condolences,” she deadpanned to Lily, then to Jowan, “Are we discussing love, or could this have waited _until tomorrow_?”

“I… no.” Jowan glanced at Lily nervously, then cleared his throat and leaned in closer to Solona so he could speak quietly. “I’ve been sneaking out at night to meet Lily… I must have been seen, I guess, but they’ve got it all wrong…” He gulped, his eyes closing as he inhaled deeply, and Solona’s annoyance began to lean toward worry. Her expression must have belied her shift of opinion, as Jowan started to rush through his explanation with more confidence. “They’re going to make me tranquil, take away all of my dreams, my love, _everything_ … Lily saw the order on the knight-commander’s desk.”

“Because of… _this_?” Solona gestured awkwardly between Lily and Jowan, bewildered that Greagoir would approve of Tranquility simply because an initiate of the faith had fallen in love with a mage. Sure, he was a templar, but the knight-commander was usually a _fair_ stick-in-the-mud templar—there would have to be more to it before he would sign off on something so grave.

“I… no. No, there’s… something else. The people who’ve seen me at night, they think I sneak around to practice… blood magic,” Jowan whispered, barely audible.

Solona scoffed, a short burst of laughter, and she shook her head. “How can anyone believe something so ridiculous?” Jowan struggled to simply light a _candle_ ; how could he have managed to practice blood magic without killing himself? She noticed Jowan’s eyes narrow in indignation as she continued to grin, and she quashed her amusement, acknowledging the seriousness of the accusations, at least. “Can’t you just… I don’t know, tell Irving the truth?”

Jowan’s voice raised an octave to achieve its usual whine. “If we tell anyone, Lily will be punished!” He reached out to take Lily’s hand in his own. “I need to escape somehow, destroy my phylactery. I can’t just stand here and let them strip me of my identity.”

Solona assumed he had brought her here to ask for her assistance, as this was no simple plan. But was she willing to risk her own livelihood to get him and Lily out of the Tower? She stared at them both, at their clasped hands, at Lily who had yet to say anything to her—not that Solona had been particularly inviting so far—and Jowan, whose eyes were wide and desperate. She thought of the Tranquil she and Duncan had just passed minutes before, dull and practically lifeless as they took inventory and enchanted weapons and laundered sheets… she couldn’t stand the thought of one of those men being Jowan, someone she _knew_. “What do you need me to do?”

Lily finally spoke, relief making her voice faint. “Thank you, we’ll never forget this.” Her fingers gripped Jowan’s hand more tightly, and her nervousness was put aside as her demeanor became more business-like. “I can get us into the repository, but there is a problem: there are two locks on the door, and the first enchanter and knight-commander each hold one of the keys.” A hint of a smile graced her lips, trying to reassure Solona as well as herself. “It _is_ only a door, however; what’s a lock to mages?”

“I doubt it’s that easy,” Solona muttered, looking down at her shoes as she pondered their circumstances.

“What if it is?” Jowan persisted.

“Experience dictates that type of thinking will get you face-to-face with a door that will try to kill you,” Solona snapped, bringing both hands up to her temples to massage them, the stress of their situation making the room start to spin again despite the elfroot. She sighed, dropping her hands, sure that her hair was an absolute mess by now. “A rod of fire might melt the locks,” she suggested dubiously.

“You could get one from the stockroom!” Jowan jumped on the idea. “The Tranquil will release one to _you_.”

Lily cut in before Solona could throw Jowan’s nonsensical envy back in his face. “We should stay here—an apprentice and an initiate would only draw more attention.”

Solona nodded, once, biting down on both cheeks in her frustration as more of her day of rest was taken up by other people’s expectations. “I’ll be back soon,” she said shortly, walking back down the hall to the stockroom as calmly and inconspicuously as possible. She hesitated as she approached the Tranquil in charge of the Circle’s stores: Owain, she recalled.

She watched the Tranquil as they worked, trying to picture twitchy, whining Jowan amongst them, and her heart ached along with her head. She found her resolve in that awful possibility, and addressed Owain, who issued the greeting he’d been trained to say to every mage no matter how many times they had done business with him. “I need a rod of fire,” Solona said, pointing at one of the rods as if to emphasize her request.

“A rod of fire?” Owain repeated impassively. “Rods have many uses; why do you require this particular item?”

Solona was taken aback for a moment. “Uh… I, um, need the rod for research into… burning things.” She could practically see the templars dragging Jowan upstairs to brand his forehead with the rune that would negate his magical talent, her lack of finesse doing him in even as she spoke.

Owain eyed her blankly, then reached for one of the many forms stacked on a table in the alcove behind him. “I’ll put your need down as a personal matter,” he droned, writing something down on the parchment before holding it out to her. “Have the form signed by a senior enchanter and I’ll release it to you.”

Solona wondered if the Tranquil would be affected at all if she screamed where she stood. “Can’t we just take what we need?” she ground out through clenched teeth. Now she needed to bring a senior enchanter into this mess as well? She recalled Mouse’s parting words in the Fade: _true tests never end._ Well, no kidding.

“It is procedure. I need permission from a senior enchanter to release the rod. Thank you,” Owain dismissed, returning to his other duties in the stockroom before Solona could say anything else, not that she could have added much while she clacked her teeth together, grinding the elfroot to a flattened, pulpy mass on her tongue.

At least some of the senior enchanters had stayed behind in the Tower. She stalked off to the nearby library, this one smaller and more intimate—and advanced—than the one downstairs; she figured her best chance of finding someone to sign the ridiculous form would be there. She stopped just short of the entrance, futilely attempting to smooth down her hair, then looked around for a senior enchanter likely to grant her request. To her chagrin, her palms were already sweating, the knowledge that at least this part of her involvement in Jowan’s escape would be recorded in Owain’s logbook.

Fortunately, her eyes fell on Senior Enchanter Sweeney, who was well-known for promoting mischief among the apprentices. He noticed her coming toward him and offered a somewhat wobbly smile, still holding a book open as if wondering if he could read and talk to her simultaneously. “Oh… hello, Solona,” he said. “You look… different. Can’t place it…” He scratched at the top of his balding head in his confusion.

“Passed my Harrowing,” Solona offered, holding out her arm so he could better notice the orange sleeve of her new robes. As she stretched, she also shook the parchment in her hand. “Could you sign this form for me?”

“Oh… ah… um…” Sweeney reached out and took the paper, squinting at it through short-sighted eyes as his lips silently read what was written. “A rod of fire?” He laughed, rubbing his chin. “I remember when some of the junior mages I mentored asked for some of these. Turns out they were burning peepholes in the girls’ dormitory.” He cleared his throat when Solona’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline. “But, ah, you wouldn’t be involved in anything like that, would you? Of course not.” He pulled a stick of writing charcoal from behind his ear, leaving a smudge behind, and began to scribble on the parchment. “I’ll sign this if you burn a big hole in the seat of the templar who patrols the library—bastard’s always giving me the stink eye.”

Solona started to laugh, but nausea warned her that this wasn’t the best course of action to take. “I’ll see what I can do. Thanks.” Sweeney was already turning back to his book, so Solona turned and went back to deal with Owain, who issued the exact same greeting and handed her the rod. “And now comes the hard part,” she grumbled, ducking back into the chapel as soon as she could without drawing any notice to herself—particularly since she rarely ever went there. “I’ve got the rod,” she announced when she was within earshot, then, “We should probably go down to the basement one at a time.”

“Good idea,” Lily agreed. “Jowan, you should go first—you’ll be out of sight.” Jowan nodded, paused as if he wanted to add something, then thought better of it and left for the basement, brushing Solona’s elbow with his fingers in thanks as he passed by her.

Suddenly uncomfortable about standing in the chapel with an initiate, Solona cleared her throat and looked around, counting all of the candles she could see until she figured enough time had passed for her to follow Jowan’s lead. She kept her footsteps measured and calm as she finally went downstairs, even though her heart was racing, her migraine worsening as she ran over every possible thing that could go wrong—grabbing the pouch of elfroot on the way down probably wouldn’t be a bad idea.

___

The basement of Kinloch’s Hold was actually a dungeon, a maze of unrelenting stone and prison bars designed by Tevinter mages; most of the expanse below the Circle Tower had since been converted for storage purposes, although some of the holding cells remained, sealed off by magical wards of repulsion and misdirection to prevent intruders from finding them. The corridors were dark and foreboding, littered with cobwebs, and the air was damp and freezing. Over the years, the Chantry had erected statues of Andraste to light the long halls, as well as replace the idols that had once represented the Old Gods Tevinter had worshiped.

Solona passed the first of many holy braziers, trailing her fingers just over the tip of the flame as she did so, taking in its warmth and trying to visualize it filling the rest of her body, fighting against the cold already seeping into her bones through her new robes. She closed her hand into a fist, holding onto that warmth, and rounded a corner at the end of the hall, coming to a stop just behind Jowan, who gasped and sprang away from her. Solona smirked, crossing her arms around herself as much to mock him as to protect herself from the chill.

Jowan scowled, shaking his arms to try to keep his blood flowing. “I hate waiting; it makes me nervous.”

Solona nearly retorted that everything made him nervous, the action almost as automatic as breathing, but this time the stakes were higher and getting caught meant there was much more to lose. Instead, she asked, “How did you meet Lily?”

Jowan’s eyes lit up, and he brought his arms around himself so he and Solona mirrored each other perfectly, each leaning against an opposite wall at the basement’s entrance. “She was reciting the Chant one night as I passed by the chapel. And… you hear those verses all the time here, all hours of the day until they seem to pour out of your ears. But Lily was kneeling in front of the brazier, and her face looked so soft in the firelight… I heard her saying those words I knew by heart and they sounded beautiful.”

 _Love turns even Jowan into a bard_ , Solona thought derisively, then grimaced at her own bitterness. Love was rare in the Circle, but if Jowan and Lily had managed to find it with each other, then it was a shame that they couldn’t be open about it without planning elaborate escape schemes. However, the trouble didn’t stop once they were out of the Tower, and if anything it would only become worse as templars were dispatched to hunt them down. “What do you intend to do once you’re out?” she asked.

Jowan looked stricken, uncertain. “I… we can go to the outskirts of Ferelden or even Orlais. We could live on a farm—”

Solona snorted, amused not only by the image of someone like Jowan on a farm, but also his notion that the templars wouldn’t hunt them as vigorously in Orlais, home of the Divine herself. They were rushed, Solona understood, but they had no money, no prospects, no family to help them hide—not many mages had loved ones to return to after their magical talent was discovered, and Jowan was one such exile. However, her doubts angered Jowan, who pushed away from the wall to whisper harshly, “We can’t manage much else, and unlike _some_ mages we won’t just be locked up for a little while if the templars find us.”

Jowan had never kept his dislike of Anders—as well as Solona’s friendship with him—a secret, but this display of contempt was absolutely ridiculous. “‘A little while?’ He’s locked up _by himself_ somewhere in _these dungeons_ for a _year_!” Solona snapped. “And I brought up the exact same concerns with him _every damn time_ he tried to get away, so take your childish… _pissing contest_ and shove it up your ass.” She leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes as she willed the cool stone to ease her aching skull.

“They call this entrance ‘the Victims’ Door.’” Lily’s awed voice seemed to come from nowhere, prompting Solona to gasp and spring away just as Jowan had earlier, biting her tongue in the process. “Sorry,” Lily apologized as she strode toward the heavy door barring the way into the rest of the basement. She stopped at Jowan’s side, and they clasped hands again before she returned her attention to the door. “This door is made up of over two hundred planks, one for each original templar,” she intoned, reaching out until her fingers almost touched heavy, worn timber. “It’s a reminder of all the dangers those cursed with magic pose.”

Pain and anxiety made Solona slightly less inclined to sit through history lessons, especially from an initiate who regarded magic as a curse. “So how do we get past it?” she asked, digging her fingernails into her elbows in her effort to keep her tone neutral. Lily seemed like a nice enough girl so far, even for a sister, and her complexion was already pallid—there was no need to put her even more on edge.

Lily licked her lips, then turned to Solona. “The door can only be opened by a templar and a mage, entering together. The Chantry primes the door with a password, and the mage touches it with mana to release it.”

Solona frowned. “So, if it needs a _mage_ , couldn’t you have just come here with Jowan?” She tilted her head to brace it against her palm, her thumb massaging her temple; she wasn’t sure how many spells she would be able to cast, her inner reserves already depleted by the Harrowing and the imbalance of lyrium use.

“The ward only responds to Harrowed mages.” Lily’s explanation was soft but significant, her eyes downcast. Had Jowan only come to Solona because of her Harrowing? Solona recalled Lily waiting in the chapel that night, and the door of the boys’ dormitory clicking shut—if Lily had seen the notice for Jowan’s Tranquility, she could have also seen an order for a Harrowing.

Solona’s eyes slipped closed in resignation, understanding necessity. “I’m assuming you have the password?”

She opened her eyes and met Lily’s gaze, who gave her the hint of a smile in return, her relief evident. Lily nodded and turned back to the door, her hand outstretched again as she recited, “Sword of the Maker, tears of the Fade.” Her words held power, and the door began to emit a soft, whirring sort of noise. Solona straightened and left the support of the wall, taking her hand away from her head so she could simply draw a bit of her magical energy to her fingertips, frost coming naturally as she touched the magical barrier just in front of the door. She felt more drain from her inner well even as she heard the ward disperse, granting them entry into the Circle’s basement.

Jowan ran past her, urging them to hurry as he crossed the distance to the door guarding the phylactery chamber. Lily seemed to take more notice of Solona’s weakening state, and kept pace with her as they followed more slowly. Solona saw the locks Lily had mentioned, and she retrieved the rod from the belt of her robes, glad that the tool would do most of the work for her. She held it out so the tip touched the metal of the simple lock and flicked it to activate a stream of intense heat…

…except nothing happened. She heard a low buzzing that meant the rod was _trying_ to work, but for whatever reason not even a spark issued. She tried once more to activate it, just in case the rod was older and needed time to warm up or something, but she achieved the same lack of results. She noticed the wards carved into the stone around the door the same time Jowan did: “Lily, I can’t cast spells here.” _Fuck_. Solona considered the pros and cons of kicking the door.

Lily placed her hands on the wards as if she could pull them off, and slumped against the wall. “Of course… why else would Irving and Greagoir use simple keys? The templars warded this door. That’s it then, we’re finished.” Her voice broke.

“Or we could see where that door leads,” Solona suggested, pointing to their right. She might have found the way Lily and Jowan’s heads whipped around comical if her body hadn’t begun to really insist that she stop running around and just take it easy like Gwynlian had told her. “Of course, with our luck, it’s probably guarded.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Jowan said, his voice oddly deep and grim as he set off down the hall, his arm entwined with Lily’s as he led them to Plan B. Solona sighed and followed, her limbs beginning to feel shaky; she popped another two elfroot pieces into her mouth, doubting they would help her much now. She touched the rod of fire to the lock of their last hope without preamble, and a stream of fire promptly burned through the door, the handle falling out so Solona merely had to push the door open.

She was just stepping through the doorway when she heard it, a muted clank from somewhere behind her, and she turned just in time to see what she had thought was an empty suit of armor swinging a sword at Lily’s head. Lily saw her eyes widen and turned as well, moving quick as lightning to duck below the arc of the blade and slam into the animated plate.

Solona drew from her magic, managing to freeze the armor in place, but the action disoriented her. She staggered back through the doorway, falling to the floor clumsily just as Lily braced herself on one leg and kicked out with the other, knocking the top half of the armor to the floor. Solona had just enough time to note that a _corpse_ had been inside the armor, long-dried blood staining the ice she’d encased it in, just before Jowan unhelpfully lit the fallen sentinel on fire.

_Dragonlings in the templars’ quarters, corpses in the basement… what in the Maker’s name is in the cavern storerooms—giant spiders?_

Lily watched the corpse long enough to confirm it wouldn’t rise again, then hurried over to Solona to help her rise to her feet. She kept her arm braced against her back to support her weight, and Solona draped her right arm over Lily’s shoulders, each of them keeping their grip as loose as possible in case they had to battle more of the guardians as they explored the basement for an alternate entrance. Lily’s voice was hushed, trembling, “Was that… blood magic?”

Solona shook her head. “That was spirit magic: an animated corpse. Some ward was probably set up to keep its activation dormant until an unauthorized trespasser tripped it. Jowan—” Her gaze tore away from the still-burning body to look up at Jowan, who was studying the fallen sentinel with an odd expression on his face, intense and… something indiscernible. Solona didn’t have the time or the energy to puzzle it out at the moment, however, so she repeated his name, more forcefully to get his attention. “Chances are good that someone upstairs set up that guardian, and he may have felt the ward activate.”

Lily’s nails bit through the robes over Solona’s back. “These things are… not of the Maker. We need to get out of here, fast.”

Normally, Solona would have pointed out that these guardians were most likely approved by the Chantry, as was the magic used to activate them, but the corpse on the other side of the door was just a little bit too… gross. Instead, she took an unsteady step back, forcing Lily to move with her or risk dropping her. Jowan’s soft footfalls followed behind them, still silent as they slowly made their way down the corridors to circumnavigate the repository.

More sentinels stood watch, attacking them in increasing numbers, and Solona used nearly all of her reserves, her migraine refusing to abate as she slumped further and further into Lily’s hold on her. Jowan provided meager support, weakening the sentinels with entropic energy, but most of their progress was achieved by Lily, who was able to attack when Solona broke out of her grip to lean against the wall; she lifted one of the swords from the attacking corpses and confirmed Solona’s suspicions that she’d had at least the basic training of a Fereldan noblewoman.

Gradually, they circled the repository to wind up at the room opposite the entrance, and Jowan conjured enough of a flame to light a few of the torches braced along the walls so they could manage another brief exploration for a way into their destination—all three were beginning to feel more than a little desperate as they ran out of rooms, and out of time. Lily and Jowan all but carried Solona over to the wall shared by the phylactery chamber, and to their utter relief they almost immediately noticed the crumbling mortar behind an old bookcase. “We need… something,” Solona wheezed, her head resting on Lily’s shoulder. “Anything that’ll knock these bricks down or… blow them up… something.”

Jowan looked around, his eyes fixing on a stone statue of a dog not too far away. “Solona… that artifact, isn’t it Tevinter? An augmentation device.” He eased Solona against the wall, motioning for Lily to do so as well so they could drag the heavy statue across the floor to the wall. “We can use the rod of fire,” he panted in explanation, his words punctuated by each shove against the statue. Solona nodded, too drained and ill to do anything else, relying on Jowan and Lily to pull the bookcase out of the way as well.

Solona stumbled over to the statue, her hand shaking as she held the rod in front of the dog’s open maw, and activated a stream of fire: the flame coalesced, gathering power, and then blasted against the old wall, crashing through stone. Solona covered her ears at the volume of the explosion, the pain in her head shrieking in protest, nearly blinding her as it seemed to stab the backs of her eyes. She cried out, dropping the rod, and clutched her head until the worst of it ebbed away, and she realized Lily and Jowan were supporting her again, holding her upright. “Solona…” Jowan’s voice was gentle, heavy with regret.

“Don’t waste time,” she hissed, unable to manage anything else. She braced herself on their shoulders, giving Jowan’s a squeeze to try to reassure him, and they almost spilled into the Circle’s phylactery chamber, tripping awkwardly as they struggled to coordinate their steps. It was Lily’s cry that announced the presence of more sentinels, and Solona was dropped unceremoniously on the floor as the other two rushed to counterattack. There were four guardians, outnumbering them, and both Lily and Jowan were disadvantaged by the abrupt close-quarter combat.

Solona closed her eyes, propping herself up on her elbows, and tried to think of something, anything that could handle four animated corpses, preferably something that wouldn’t take everything she had… Solona’s eyes snapped open, taking just a moment to judge the scene, then shouted, “Jowan!” before reaching out and flicking her wrist in an upward twist, turning a guardian’s blood into a corrosive poison. The spell was dangerous, risking herself and her accomplices, but fortunately Jowan seemed to perceive what she was doing and yanked Lily away from the sentinel, which was now hunched over, jerking unnaturally as its own blood turned against itself.

There was another tense second as the unaffected sentinels continued to bear down on them and Jowan and Lily fought to beat them back, but then the infected corpse suddenly froze, locked at a grotesque angle, and Solona was sure if it had a voice it would have screamed. Then, horrifyingly, it burst into unidentifiable pieces, eliminating the other three enemies as well. Blood and flesh covered the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and Solona didn’t want to contemplate what was still in the armor as it clattered against stone.

They stared, wide eyed and pale, before Solona pitched herself forward and vomited over entrails, crouched on hands and knees in gore as she dry-heaved, her stomach empty. She couldn’t stop, and her head pounded, roaring in her ears; it had all been too much, one thing after another without any respite, and now she couldn’t leave the repository without Lily and Jowan dragging her back upstairs. She felt Lily’s hands on her head, pulling her short hair back away from her mouth; she heard Jowan moving around the room, probably searching for his phylactery, and eventually she heard the shattering of glass.

“Hold on,” Jowan said as he rushed back into the storeroom, and after a minute he came back, a vial of pale, glowing blue liquid in his hand. “Here, sip this; it’ll help your body adjust.” Solona took the lyrium potion, her hand trembling as she brought the lip of the vial to her mouth. She only took a small sip, gagging as it went down and nearly throwing it back up again, but Jowan was right: the lyrium bolstered her energy, lessening the intensity of her migraine just enough to quell the overwhelming nausea.

“Thank you,” she gasped, choking on the taste of bile and lyrium. She wiped her mouth clumsily with the back of her hand and gave the vial back to Jowan for him to hold, and Lily and Jowan helped pull her away from the carnage of the sentinels—her robes must have been saturated with blood by now. She gagged again at the thought, but she forced a slow, deep inhale through her nose, closing her eyes and leaning back against Jowan until she was able to breathe normally.

“I don’t know how we’ll ever be able to repay you for this,” Jowan said, pushing Solona forward just enough for him to rise to his feet—they couldn’t afford to linger any longer than they already had. Lily followed suit, her hands clutching Solona’s left arm just a little too tightly as she too fought the urge to retch over the damage done to the sentinels.

Solona’s grin was wan, barely there, as Jowan tugged her to her feet. “Just get me up the stairs and we’ll call it square,” she whispered. She may as well have been asleep as Lily and Jowan carried her out of the basement, every movement jogging her senses. When they reached the door to the landing of the first floor, she nearly sobbed in relief.

Jowan closed the door behind them and Solona was just about to suggest they leave her on the bench nearby so she could try to get to Gwynlian, when Lily gasped, and Solona’s eyes shifted, woozily, to see what had startled her: templars, a band of them, and at their head were the knight-commander and Irving. Solona had nothing, no ideas, no excuses, no energy—she could barely comprehend what their presence meant. All she could do was stare at them, her face blank of expression as Greagoir walked toward them, stern and grim.

“So what you said was true, Irving,” he said, his voice flat as he scrutinized them. “An initiate conspiring with a blood mage. I’m disappointed.” He stopped in front of Lily, who was white as a sheet, and Solona probably looked worse. “She’s fully aware of her actions. Not a thrall of the blood mage, then,” he confirmed, peering into Lily’s wide, tearing eyes. “The Chantry will not let your betrayal go unpunished.”

“And you,” he continued, his gaze now pinning Solona to the spot—not that she could have moved much as it was. “Newly a mage, and already flouting the rules of the Circle.”

Irving moved quietly to Greagoir’s side. “You could have come to me with this plan,” he said, eyeing Solona with a disappointment that sparked a small, brief flare of anger deep in her core: she could have helped him sentence someone she knew to a fate worse than death?

Before she could say anything, Jowan abruptly broke away from her, releasing his hold and sending both her and Lily stumbling as they struggled to adjust to the shift in balance. “You don’t care about the mages here! You just bow to the Chantry’s every whim!” he yelled. Solona winced, ducking and trying to cover her head with the arm that wasn’t holding onto Lily.

“Enough!” Greagoir shouted, and Solona couldn’t stop the moan of pain that slipped out from low in her throat. “As knight of the templars assembled, I sentence this blood mage to death.” He looked at Lily, his eyes sharp with the sting of her betrayal. “And this initiate has scorned the Chantry and her vows. Take her to Aeonar.”

 _Wait… what?_ Solona’s mind tried to wrap around Greagoir’s words, unaware of Lily letting her go until her knees slammed against hard stone, and she bit her tongue again, tasting blood. She looked up at Lily, in a daze, as the sister backed away from the advancing templars, her arms outstretched as she begged for understanding. The mages’ prison… home to preying demons as much as it was mages, where the Chantry claimed a mage’s guilt was affirmed when he was inevitably possessed.

Solona was absorbed with the enormity of Lily and Jowan’s fate, registering on some level that Jowan was yelling while Lily still pled for mercy, when Lily suddenly began to scream in earnest. Without a warning, the air around Solona turned vile, the sickly sweet scent of carrion filling her nostrils, tinged with the ozone of magic, and Solona’s head snapped up to see the dark red energy of blood magic… around Jowan. She choked on her breath, shocked and disbelieving, as Jowan turned his own life force against the unsuspecting templars, lifting them up and making them twitch and scream as the same blood-red power swirled around them.

The sight, the smell, the sound of their agonized shrieks, it was all too much and Solona couldn’t stand it—she had to make it stop, somehow it had to stop. She planted her hands on the floor, bracing herself on all fours, and threw all of her weight to the side, knocking against Jowan and breaking his hold on the templars as he stumbled. He whirled around to glare down at where she was sprawled helplessly, and for a moment Solona thought he would strike her before Lily sobbed, drawing their attention to her tear-streaked, horror-stricken face. “I was going to give up everything for you… You said… you said you never—”

“I admit, I dabbled! I thought it would make me a better mage…” Jowan scrabbled frantically for an excuse, trying to move closer to her and halting when Lily all but threw herself away from him. “I’m going to give it up! All magic! I just want to be with _you_ , Lily! _Please_!” he keened as Lily continued to back away from him. 

Instead of swaying her, his begging only seemed to strengthen Lily’s resolve, her gaze steely as she pushed Jowan away from her. “I don’t know who you are. Stay away from me, _blood mage_.”

Jowan stood, wavering as templars stirred on the floor, confirming they’d survived. The noise spurred Jowan into action, and after one last glance at Lily, he turned and fled, presumably for the tower’s exit. Lily remained where she was, her back against the banister as she sobbed into her hands. Solona lay there on the floor, her heart racing in terror, betrayal, _rage_ ; she did the only thing she could do, and her cries joined Lily’s as the events of the day finally overpowered her.

She felt, rather than saw, as someone knelt beside her, feeling her forehead for a fever. “Are you all right?” Irving rasped, his other hand trailing over her robes—he must have been checking if any of the blood on them was her own. He seemed satisfied after a few seconds, and hauled Solona to her feet, leading her over to the bench she had intended to sit on in the first place.

Solona’s thoughts were broken, loud and jarring her senses, as the templars dealt with the aftermath of Jowan’s attack. She could hear Greagoir, but couldn’t understand anything he said, words distorted and echoing against her ears. Her heartbeat seemed to rip through her body, thrumming fast and loud, supplying: _your friend Jowan is a maleficar, years of ridicule convincing him blood magic was his best chance to advance. Now he’ll be hunted, killed._

_This is your life._

“I knew it… blood magic. But to overcome so many… I never thought him _capable_.” Greagoir’s voice ripped through the pounding in Solona’s head, adding a jarring counterpoint as she recounted Mouse’s warning: _preconception, careless trust, pride_. A sob tore from her throat, animalistic as she willed Jowan to return so she could strangle him with her trembling hands. _The templars will not overlook their fear of you now, and you’ll be imprisoned like Anders, like Lily_.

This is your life.

She watched as templars took Lily by her arms, dragging her away as she continued to sob, broken and defeated. Solona shuddered, spent and silently begging that Greagoir would relent, that a girl who had served in the Maker’s house would be spared the horrors of Aeonar. Her lips moved soundlessly in a desperate apology, one that Lily couldn’t see through her tears. _A mage’s life is cursed, and curses everyone it touches; the Chantry taught you this._

 _This is your life_.

She was only minimally aware when Greagoir’s attention turned to her, furious and accusatory, and her mouth opened and closed, but no words would come. “You’ve made a mockery of the Circle! You helped a _blood mage_ escape; all of our measures for naught! What are we to do with you?” She could only peer at the knight-commander from between her fingers, her hands clutching her face, the side of her head, as she tried not to retch again. _Jowan’s blood was not like the sentinels’; corrupted, congealed with a power that pulled at your very core, and you’ve set him free._

 _This is your life, written by those around you, and this is all you’ve ever known, all you have left_.

“…mages are needed. Worse things than blood mages exist. I will take this mage as a recruit for the Grey Wardens, and bear all responsibility for her actions.” Solona realized her eyes had been closed, and she jerked out of her despair, recognizing that voice… Duncan. He was standing in front of her, his hand held protectively just over her shoulder as he spoke… about her? Solona blinked, willing answers.

“A blood mage escapes and the mage responsible not only goes unpunished, but is _rewarded_?” Greagoir was nearly toe-to-toe with Duncan, pushed to the brink by the threat that had managed to slip past the control he tried so painstakingly to maintain.

Irving was off to the side, only partly invested in their argument as he continued to assess the damage done by Jowan— _the maleficar_. “We have no say in this matter, Greagoir,” he reasoned, his tone heavy. “If the Wardens have need of her, then we have no choice but to let her go.”

Solona breathed, in and out, her body still wracked by sobs. Her shock made everything unreal, a dream. “I’m to be a Warden?” she asked faintly, barely audible through her hands. “They would have me after what I’ve done?” _You were told the walls of the Tower protected you from superstition and fear, from loathing and misunderstanding_.

“A young woman who risked everything for a friend in need?” Duncan’s voice was serious, but gentle, a blessing after Greagoir’s anger. “You will carve out your own place in this world.” His hand finally descended on her shoulder, and he turned to the first enchanter. “We’ll wait until morning to leave; she’s in no state to travel tonight.” _Your life is being rewritten, but will you allow another to write it?_

Irving nodded, and Solona didn’t think she’d ever seen him appear as old and gray as he did then. “She may sleep in the apprentice quarters. Her friends will look after her there, and I will send for Enchanter Ceeley.” He picked up the vial of lyrium that Jowan had dropped in his haste to escape. “You will need this, and you will need rest.” He waited for Solona to take the vial, then he sighed and looked over the templars and spattered blood again. “I will need to address the Circle, and try to keep everyone calm once this is known.”

Solona watched him leave, regretting her part in the unrest that she would be leaving behind, and she jolted as Duncan pulled her to her feet, easily carrying her weight toward the girls’ dormitory. This _is your life_ , her heart told her, quieter now, slowing. _This is_ your _life_. Exhaustion overcame everything else around her, blanketing her senses and dragging her down into sleep she could no longer delay; she vaguely registered worried murmurs around her, hands helping her to the bed that would no longer be hers.

 _Tomorrow, you will live_ your _life_.


	4. this feeling is not sadness

The candlelight was soft, brighter than the embers in the fireplace, but only illuminating the desk it was mounted on and Solona, the flame dangerously close to singeing her haphazard bangs as she repeatedly pushed them every which way with agitated fingers. She frowned at the simple, blank page on the desk in front of her, willing words to fill it of their own accord; she knew she would have to leave soon, that Duncan was eager to rejoin his order at Ostagar and she would have no time to write Anders the long farewell she desired. However, after nearly half an hour she’d only managed to scribble out: “ _Dear Anders._ ”

Solona couldn’t put what should have come next into words; she could still hardly believe any of it had happened herself. Not to mention, the last time she and Anders had spoken hadn’t ended well—not that that excused her from saying goodbye, as they fought all the time. When she thought of Anders, she felt the sting of rejection, of a boy who flung himself over and over again at the idea of freedom, and she was sure Anders thought her a fool for seeking compromise with the chantry, for asking him how he intended to stay hidden away from vigilant templars.

Despite all of this, Anders was still the closest thing she’d ever had to a real friend, a boy who had been dragged to the Circle from outside Ferelden, a boy who had been torn from his mother and felt the loss everywhere, ached everywhere from it. And instead of letting everyone know just how torn he was, he held everyone at bay with a quirk of his lips and a wry comment on someone’s height, hair, whatever he could draw attention to. Solona might have loved him once, in a young girl’s way, with the desire to hold his hand and smooth away his long, flyaway hair before he’d begun to tie it back himself, to flirt with so many people who weren’t her as he called her Loony and flicked the tip of her nose or traced her eyebrows whenever she started to look too serious.

Slow burning anger coiled in her gut when she thought of someone with a spirit as big as Anders’ locked away in the basement, alone. She needed to tell him, somehow, why she wouldn’t be there when he was released, but she feared that telling him everything would only make his solitary confinement even more present and unbearable than it already was. In the end, she settled for: “ _Joined the Wardens. Love, Loony._ ” It wasn’t much at all, but at least he would know she wasn’t dead—she hoped that would be enough.

She folded the note, simply pinching it closed between her fingers as she blinked away a mist of tears she hadn’t realized was there. She swallowed down the lump in her throat and blew out the candle before returning to her bed, where all of her meager belongings were already laid out and waiting: her nightdress, her mostly unfilled grimoire, a few books to improve the magic she’d only just begun to hone, enough crafting supplies to last her until Ostagar where she could hopefully replenish her resources, and her staff, which was still weird for her to own—she had easily forgotten it when she’d gone down into the basement because they were only rented out to apprentices during lessons with their mentors. She owned nothing else, not even a cloak to wear over her robes, which were still clammy after a night of some poor Tranquil mage trying to scrub away blood before it could stain them too badly.

She sighed, trying to expel worries and regrets along with her breath, and picked up the satchel holding her books and herbs and bottles, securing it over her shoulder as she lifted her staff, tested its weight and texture in her hand like she’d been too preoccupied to do the day before. She had already left notes for Gwynlian and Wreda, and she felt she was as ready as she would ever be; she nodded once at her bed, as if it represented all of the Circle, and set out to find a templar who might be inclined to deliver her note to Anders. She couldn’t ask a mage, as she was certain the templars would reinforce security in the basement after what she had helped Jowan accomplish; she doubted a templar would even feel inclined to grant her request, really, but she had to at least try.

Solona had just reached the door when she heard the telltale slap of feet hitting the floor, and she turned to see Wreda hurrying toward her. Before she could say anything, Wreda threw her arms around her, pulling her into a hug that threatened to crush her sternum, stealing the air away from her lungs. She returned the embrace as best she could, laden by her belongings, and when Wreda broke away she refused to meet her eyes, hiding them behind her long, black hair.

When she spoke, her voice was thick and strangled as she made every effort to resist crying. “For luck.” She held out her hand to Solona and unfurled her fingers, revealing a sprig of dried heather on her palm: the charm she’d made years ago, cut from the wild heather that managed to grow on the rocks Kinloch’s Hold was built upon. Her tone and the angle of her hand left no room for Solona to turn down her gift, and she accepted it, tucking the purple blossoms into the elaborate belt of her robes.

“You’ll find a way, Wreda,” Solona encouraged, suddenly just as choked with emotion as she thought of Wreda and Gwynlian, more of the life she knew that was being left behind. She couldn’t manage to say anything more, so instead she hugged Wreda again, dropping her satchel and staff on the floor with a clatter, and stared at the fireplace over her friend’s shoulder until her vision was blurred by tears. Then she blinked and cleared her throat, pulled away and picked up her things, and gave Wreda a crooked smile, which wobbled as Wreda responded with a customary grimace.

Afraid of presenting herself as a sobbing wreck in the lobby, Solona turned abruptly on her heel and left the girls’ dormitory and the life of a Circle mage. As the door closed behind her, she looked from left to right, along the expanse of corridor, trying to think of a templar she could approach for a favor. Deciding that the best way to go about it was to simply ask around, she began walking toward the library, greeting each templar she passed to gauge his reaction and resolutely ignoring the entrance to the basement.

She was either overlooked altogether or received a nod and maybe some kind of grunt, but it wasn’t until she had just reached the stairs to the second floor that she thought she might have a chance. The templar standing sentry at the banister fidgeted as she came closer, and when she said good morning, he stammered an actual reply, revealing the identity of the man underneath the imposing helmet. Solona smiled, just a little uncertainly. “Hello, Cullen.”

Cullen’s gauntleted hands twitched, started to reach up as if to remove his helm, but they halted and fell back to his sides. He nodded, once, and Solona got the impression he was trying to return her smile, just as uncertainly. After another moment of silence, he spoke again, his voice hollowed out by a strange sort of echo underneath the helmet, “I’m glad you’re all right. Not just the Harrowing, but… yesterday.”

Solona’s brows dipped in a momentary frown at the memory of both, but then she swallowed and cleared her throat again. “Thank you.”

“I was there,” Cullen added, his armor clanking as he shifted his weight again. “At your Harrowing, not… _there_.” He seemed to want to move past the subject of Jowan as quickly as Solona did, and hastily went on, “I… knew you wouldn’t fail. I just wanted to, you know, congratulate you.”

“You were there?” Solona asked, her hand shooting up to scratch the usual spot at the nape of her neck almost unconsciously at Cullen’s praise.

“They… uh… picked me to strike the killing blow if you… uh, failed. But I knew you wouldn’t.” Cullen was rocking back and forth now, his hands clenching and releasing, a perfect contrast to how still Solona had become.

“They… _picked_ you?” Solona asked, unable to keep a small frown from twisting her features. Did templars truly assign such a task at a mage’s Harrowing? She knew Cullen to be one of the better templars in the Circle, one who was stationed to guard against maleficarum and abominations, but who didn’t eye every mage who walked the halls as if he would be possessed at any moment.

The thought of him being assigned to kill her as a test of his resolve left an awful taste in her mouth. She gave the slightest shake of her head, unable to spare any more time before she had to leave, and held out the note in her hand. “I was wondering… I’m sure you’re not supposed to, but I can’t do it myself.” She bit down on the inside of her cheek, steadying herself, and said in a rush, “This is for Anders, just to tell him why I’ve gone.”

She waited with baited breath for Cullen’s response, and after a second she thought he would decline, but then he took the note from her, folding it down once more before tucking it into the ceremonial sash around his armor. Then he reached up and removed his helmet, running one hand over short, blond curls as he looked down to meet her gaze, the weight in his expressive hazel eyes a shock to Solona after dealing with impassive steel. “I’ll try to get this to him, but I can’t promise anymore than that.” He appeared to have more to say, as if silently fumbling over words, so Solona waited, staying the urge to cross her arms against the cold and her nerves in case Cullen misinterpreted the gesture as impatience.

“I’m sorry about… about yesterday,” Cullen said finally, his voice heavy. “I’m sorry a maleficar used you. It’s why… it’s why we stand here, in these halls. We have to be vigilant, so something like that doesn’t happen again.” His words sounded just as much like an apology as an attempt to convince them both. Before Solona could say anything, not that she could think of anything _to_ say, Cullen added with more conviction, “I wish you luck in the Grey Wardens.”

“Um… thanks, Cullen.” Solona finally gave into the impulse to close her arms in on herself, silently adding _I’m sure I’ll need it_ as she gave him the barest of smiles. “I guess I shouldn’t distract you anymore.”

She began to turn when Cullen blurted out, “Oh, you’re not distracting—I mean, you _are_ , but…” He fidgeted, issued a burst of laughter at his own awkwardness, and reached up to scratch at the top of his head, successfully hiding part of his face behind his armored forearm. “I think you’ll make the Circle proud.”

“No pressure,” Solona joked, giving Cullen a small wave with the fingers peeking out over her right elbow, then turning and leaving the library before Cullen could laugh or reassure or do much more than resume his post—if they spoke any longer she’d wind up spilling all of her emotions onto his boots. Her pace slowed at the basement entrance, which she noticed had been scrubbed clean of blood sometime in the night, and somehow the everyday appearance of the stone and carpet and torches impacted Solona somewhere in her sternum, staggered her psyche.

Yesterday, her life had almost ended; yesterday, her friend had left her and the woman he claimed to love to their own fates in a room full of angry, defeated templars. Yesterday, her new life had begun with the Grey Wardens, and she had yet to figure out _why_. There were so many thoughts, too many to process at once, from Jowan’s betrayal and the uncertainty of Lily’s fate, to the gnawing fear of war that had yet to become more than an eventuality to her, and most prominent was her curiosity about exactly what Duncan thought she could bring to the Wardens.

Well, the best way to find out was to _ask_ him. Solona turned forcefully from the basement door, silently willing one last goodbye to Anders and hoping that Cullen would be able to get her letter to him, before walking briskly to the Circle Tower’s lobby, intending to reach her destination before she could think herself back into her bed and denial and choices that would be made for her. When she rounded the last bend of the corridor and stepped into the lobby, she noticed Duncan already waiting near the great doors that were the tower’s sole entrance, standing close to but not quite leaning against the pillar that marked the center of the room—a position more akin to awareness and defense than boredom.

As she approached, Duncan drew away from the pillar and hefted a larger pack than Solona’s onto both shoulders, then tested the scabbard and sheath fastened to either side of his belt, ensuring his weapons were secure. “Are you ready?” he asked, his deep voice echoing in the lobby despite his near-whisper. Solona wondered how long he’d been standing there, waiting for her to do what she needed to leave the Tower behind; she decided then that she would be able to like him, once the ever-present thrum of nerves running through her blood began to abate.

“As I’ll ever be,” Solona answered truthfully, confirming this to herself as she spoke: there was nothing left here for her new life, with everything waiting for her at Ostagar. Duncan merely turned to the templars guarding the door, who responded in kind by pulling open one of the massive doors, the weight of the wood creaking and resonating through the lobby. Duncan slipped through the door when it was open enough for him to proceed, while Solona approached more slowly, her legs and arms and everything tingling as each footstep brought her out of the prison that had been her home for over half of her life.

As she passed the waiting templars, a rush of fear coursed from her throat to her feet, and for a moment she was terrified they would disagree with her recruitment, that it had all been cruel false hope and they would close the door on her before she could follow Duncan. But then her foot crossed the threshold, landed on the steps carved into the rocks rising out of Lake Calenhad, and her other foot was allowed to follow suit; she stood in the open air of Ferelden, surrounded by mist and pre-dawn light. She heard the templars begin to almost immediately close the door behind her, and the sound spurred her into action, descending the stairs as quickly as she dared to catch up with Duncan—it wouldn’t make her look good, to slip and break her neck before they even officially left the tower.

The man who ferried passengers to and from the tower, Kester, waited below at the single dock, already sitting at the stern of the boat. He rose as they approached, but remained in the boat as he greeted them, fitting in directions for where their packs should go and where they should sit while he chatted aimlessly. Solona sat in the middle of the plain vessel, noting the amount of care that had gone into maintaining it over the years, and watched wisps of fog rise from the waves lapping against stained wood.

It was still too early to see the shore clearly, but as Kester brought them closer, Solona leaned forward and peered intently through pale darkness at signs of sand and grass and huts, too eager to pay much attention as he continued to talk. It seemed to take forever for the boat’s bow to draw alongside the dock, and when it finally did, Solona pulled herself onto faded, warped planks, and stumbled to her feet. She ran along the short expanse of dock, too excited to be self-conscious, and kicked off her shoes to sink her feet, orange stockings and all, into wet grass.

She felt a rush of emotion again, this time blurring her already-limited view of Lake Calenhad’s shore with nostalgia as she dug her toes into soft earth like she hadn’t done since she was a little girl. She heard Kester’s limping gait on the dock behind her, and when he caught up to her he took off his cloak and held it out to her. “You look like you need this more than I do, missy,” he said, draping it over her shoulders when she continued to just look at him in surprise.

It was then that Solona realized she’d been shivering, her robes and shift offering little protection from the morning chill. “I… thank you.” She adjusted the cloak more firmly around her shoulders, drawing it together to shield her from the mist and the faint breeze that just barely touched her cheeks, stirred her hair.

Duncan spoke from her other side, startling her— _when had he even gotten off the boat?_. “There will be more equipment available once we reach Ostagar. In the meantime, I suggest you hold onto what you already have,” he added wryly, holding out Solona’s satchel and her staff. Solona took them sheepishly, securing the strap of her pack over her shoulder and grinning as she pushed her hair away from her face.

Duncan’s smile was distracted, and almost instantly after his jaw set in a more business-like manner, thanking Kester for the use of his boat before saying to Solona, “We’ll have to move quickly, and I apologize for the strain this will put on your recovery from yesterday’s events. Fortunately, we will have use of the Imperial Highway for most of the journey.” He began to climb the hill from the shoreline to the road, leaving Solona no choice but to slip her feet back into her shoes and hurry after him, shouting another thanks to Kester over her shoulder.

The hill would have been daunting to her if she hadn’t spent most of her life running up and down winding stairs, and she made it to the crest before Duncan, using her new staff to ease the ascent. She felt fit to burst, as if the idea of being able to go anywhere left her wanting to go _everywhere_ at once, and she rose onto the balls of her feet in anticipation before turning to Duncan. “How long will it take to reach Ostagar?”

“I estimate a few days at the most, if the weather remains favorable.” Duncan’s tone remained dry with amused understanding, and he resumed his quick stride as Solona ambled behind him, caught up in the lightening sky and its fading stars, the crumbling arches of what must have once been an outpost guarding the lakeshore, the slow chirping of birds awaking. She spared one last long look at the Circle Tower behind her, at the people still within, at the senior enchanter she would have eventually become if she had remained. Then she heard Duncan calling her name from some distance away and whipped around, jogging after him as he continued to rapidly close the distance to the highway; she was admittedly a little winded when she caught up with him, and resolved to explore later.

\---

By the time they stopped and set up camp for the night, Solona was spent; while she was no stranger to climbing long staircases, she hadn’t had to do so _all damn day_ either. Duncan veered off the highway sometime in the early evening, liking the look of a copse of trees by a streambed that led to Lake Calenhad, and Solona nearly fell where she stood in relief; while the flask of lyrium had helped abate her migraine, she had spent the last half of the day queasy, sweaty, possibly sunburned, and definitely blistered—her feet were damn sure to let her know her thin shoes were not meant for travel. She limped after her… mentor, she supposed, and when she approached the designated site, she flopped unceremoniously onto the ground, planting her hands behind her to keep her upright.

Duncan only chuckled and tossed her his water skin. “Fill these up in the stream, and I’ll get a fire started.”

Solona eyed the skin that had landed between the V of her legs, her tired mind taking a moment to catch up to Duncan’s order, and then she let it roll off the skirt of her robes as she kicked off her shoes and removed her stockings, grimacing at how damp they were from sweat. She bundled her stockings into her shoes, shoved them into her pack, and took her and Duncan’s water skins to the stream, liking the idea of water too much to even groan when her feet screamed at her to _get off_ of them already—besides, the soft grass was easier on the sensitive pads than the hard stones of the old Tevinter highway. She all but stumbled onto the streambed, exhausted, and held up her robes with one hand so she could step into the cold water and soothe her aching feet while she filled Duncan’s water skin, keeping it upstream from her legs in case Duncan was squeamish about drinking her foot water.

She heard laughter from somewhere in the trees and looked up to see Duncan watching her as he collected deadwood from the ground, and she flashed another sheepish grin, one of many that day. The older man was pleasant enough company to travel with, she’d found, as long as her mind wasn’t taken up by perceived inadequacy and the events that had led her to this point, but as they’d been covering so much ground so quickly she hadn’t quite had the time to mull over her thoughts. They were catching up to her now, however, weighing down on her tired, throbbing shoulders.

What she remembered most was the smell of blood magic, rotten and corrupted, sweet and metallic, the scent thick in her memory; it made her stomach churn just thinking about the way the templars twitched like marionettes in a puppet show as they screamed in agony. She remembered Lily’s eyes, wide with fear and disbelief, bright with tears as she threw her life away on a man who had lied to her; Jowan’s haggard face, twisted in contempt as he made the templars’ blood boil, as he glared down at Solona for disrupting his hold on them.

The thought of Jowan prompted so many emotions, swirling around in her like oil on water, but what remained was a deep-set rage. His use of blood magic had felt unnatural, wrong, prompting Solona to recall every word from _Transfigurations_ , and she’d wanted nothing more in the world than to stop him, stop the terrible keening in her soul. He had come to her and Lily for help to escape a fate worse than death, had lied and used and betrayed them, and despite his claims to love and friendship he had still left them behind in favor of his own skin.

Not to mention the unrest he may have begun in the Circle—the mages would hear of his escape and consider blood magic as a solution, and the templars would begin to suspect every mage in the tower of dabbling in the forbidden school. With luck, the first enchanter would be able to calm the fire before it started, but the knight-commander had been so _angry_ ; a hapless apprentice had been studying blood magic right under his nose, and managed to slip out of his prison with no way to track him down—he could be near their camp, putting as much distance between himself and the templars as possible. While she still abhorred the Rite of Tranquility, Solona felt as though she could _kill_ Jowan for what he’d done.

Solona turned back to her task, dismissing her fury in favor of more pressing matters. She tossed Duncan’s filled water skin onto the bank and lowered her own, and as she waited for water to rush into the open mouth, she caught a distorted glimpse of her reflection in the stream and flinched. Once her own skin was full, she promptly swallowed several gulps of water, then sealed it as she limped back to her satchel for a single bar of soap.

Rather than undo what the sun had worked so hard to accomplish and soak her robes again, Solona merely knelt on the streambed and ducked her head into the water, wetting her hair so she could wash away nearly three days’ worth of oil and grime. Once she was finished, the top of her robes were a little splotched with water and suds, but she was still relatively dry from the neck down, and the blood stains in her blue skirt were barely visible. She figured, once her hair was dry, she would look less like she had had quite a few brushes with death in the past two days.

Sure that Duncan was probably laughing at her again, she wrapped the soap back up in the sheet of waxed paper she kept it in and stuck it in her pack before limping toward the trees to help him set up camp, feeling more awake and refreshed after plunging her face into icy water. Duncan had her collect kindling while he arranged what he’d already gathered, and after Solona returned with several armfuls of branches, she held her hand as close to the base of the improvised fire pit as she could and conjured a small flame, putting a bit more effort into willing the fire into being than she typically had to. She felt the magic pull from her reserves, less taxing than it had been just the night before, and was fairly certain she would be reasonably prepared by the time they arrived at Ostagar. “What else needs to be done?” she asked, eager to stick her feet back in the stream or sleep, she wasn’t sure which was more desirable.

“I will finish setting up camp,” Duncan said, already opening his larger pack of equipment. “You will need to try to recover as much as possible before we reach Ostagar, and that does not allow you much time.”

Solona elected to stand in the stream, feeling the water push lazily against her calves as it flowed past, and watched Duncan silently as he went about getting everything ready before nightfall. She really _wasn’t_ used to this sort of activity and had such a short amount of time for this to change, and yet she was still expected to aid the Grey Wardens in a war against the darkspawn. “Duncan? I’m not the only recruit you have, am I?” It wasn’t _exactly_ the question she wanted to ask, but still valid.

“No, there are two others,” Duncan answered. They were both silent, listening to the crackle of the fire rising in volume as the flames steadily grew. Then he addressed the silent question that had been rattling around in Solona’s head since the moment he’d recruited her: “While I admit I came to the Circle hoping to find a mage for the Grey Wardens, I will also tell you here and now that I do not recruit out of pity—had I not thought you had the potential to join, I would not have made the offer.”

Solona slowly paced along the streambed bordering the length of their camp, unconsciously running her tongue over her split lip as she scrutinized her own self-worth. Duncan watched her calmly from over the fire, and when she remained quiet, her only sounds the soft rustling of her robes and the splashing of her feet as she moved, he added, “Irving spoke highly of you, and it’s true, your magic will give you an advantage against the darkspawn.” He held out three fingers, as if tallying his reasons. “You are frank, resourceful, and compassionate; I believe this will serve you well in the Wardens.”

She scratched her head, ruffling her wet hair. “As long as it all works for _somebody_ ,” she muttered, thinking of templars and enchanters who expected her to mind her tongue and learn magic she wouldn’t be able to do anything with. The idea of her freedom came back to her in another rush of elation, and brought with it the question of her phylactery: would it still be held in Denerim? She wasn’t sure if it mattered now, if she was accepted into the Wardens—there were reports of apostates and even maleficarum in their ranks, in the past, and she didn’t _think_ Greagoir was the type to send a group of templars after her; she’d deal with that issue if it came up.

“So,” Solona said, stepping out of the water as it began to numb her ankles, the air around her cooling as the sun dipped below the horizon. “Wardens: they fight darkspawn.” She sat off to Duncan’s left, stretching her legs out so her feet were close to the warmth of the campfire. She felt the weight of Duncan’s scrutiny and turned to grin, but wound up yawning instead. “Just wanted to be clear about all of that history in the textbooks.”

Duncan nodded and reached into his satchel, pulling out a cloth and unwrapping more of the food the Tranquil had packed for their journey south. Solona took what she was offered, eating slowly so she wouldn’t upset her stomach, even if she was ravenous. It wasn’t until she was nearly done eating that Duncan said anything, eventually confirming in the grim tone he seemed to adopt every time he discussed darkspawn and his order, “This life will not be easy, and you will be expected to stop the darkspawn threat at all costs; Wardens are humans, elves, and dwarves, united by this sole purpose.”

He wrapped up what was left over of their meal and tucked it into his pack to keep away scavengers. “Get some rest. We’ll have to cover even more ground to reach Ostagar tomorrow,” he advised. As Solona found she was already falling asleep, she merely nodded her thanks to him and crawled into the simple tent Duncan had pitched near the fire, more for privacy than for any sort of protection from the elements; he needn’t have bothered, as she was used to spending most of her life sleeping where others could keep an eye on her, but she appreciated the gesture.

She had thought sleep would be difficult to come by on her first night away from the Circle Tower, caught up in the world around her and burdened by expectations, but Duncan’s unrelenting pace had left her bone tired. Solona flopped onto the bedroll laid out for her, burrowing into its warmth until she was covered up to her nose. She was certain that this courtesy Duncan had granted would only last the night, so she intended to make use of it, listening to the fire, the crickets, the frogs, the burbling of the stream until all noises faded away and she slept.

\---

Waking in a tent a day’s trip away from the Circle Tower had been strange and wonderful… and painful. Solona had groaned, cocooned in her bed roll, as every limb in her body warned her not to move, but she and Duncan had to dismantle the campsite and rejoin the Imperial Highway before the sun rose, giving her little time to loosen her aching muscles before they were traveling again. By the time the sun rose and cleared away the morning mist, they passed through the outskirts of the arling of Redcliffe and left the shores of Lake Calenhad, the last landmark familiar to Solona.

As they traveled further south, the road became worn, even broken in some places, and Duncan and Solona had to cut through waist-high grasses and tall, fragrant evergreens; the land was beautiful and wilder than northern Ferelden, but it was also rougher on Solona’s thin shoes. When they set up camp again for the night, Solona washed out her stockings and wrapped them around the blisters along the soles of her feet, trying to provide them with some kind of extra protection until they reached Ostagar. She was as tired as she had been the night before, falling asleep almost the moment the sun went down, but lighting the campfire was a little easier and when she woke up the next morning she wasn’t nearly as sore.

Their third day was marked by a bright sun, burning off the mist before mid-morning, but Solona noticed the road was at an incline, leading them higher toward the snowy wastes beyond the known world; soon the air became thinner, colder. By the time the ruins of Ostagar became visible in the distance, its Tevinter architecture apparent in remarkable domes and arches, the sun was at its apex in the clear blue sky, and Solona nearly walked herself right off the highway gaping at the surrounding mountains and forest of legend: the Korcari Wilds. Tales abounded amidst the wide expanse of trees, rife with spirits and wolves, toxins and sunken ruins, cannibals and witches.

Duncan provided a more business-like perspective as they drew nearer, the gates erected by the king’s army marking the end of the highway and the beginning of the occupied fortress, and Solona was able to nearly match his stride, barely limping, as he moved quicker still toward his destination. “It’s fitting that we make our stand here. It was once used by Tevinter to watch for Wilders invading the northern lowlands, and now we face a different foe amassing within the forest.

“There are few Grey Wardens within Ferelden at the moment, but all of us are here.” His head turned just enough to catch Solona in his periphery, and she tried to stop gawking at everything and adopt a somewhat more impressive stature to compliment his. “This Blight must be stopped here and now. If it spreads to the north, Ferelden will fall.” Duncan seemed about to say something else to her, but the sun glinted off something quickly coming toward them, and both his and Solona’s eyes were drawn to a man running past the formations of soldiers to meet them at the gate.

“Ho there, Duncan!” His voice was light and cheerful, suiting his fine blond hair and bright blue eyes.

“King Cailan?” Duncan’s surprise was a pale shadow of Solona’s, who tripped over her own feet and nearly stumbled straight into her mentor’s back for all her efforts to avoid otherwise, biting down on her tongue as she did so. She was relieved the king’s attention was still on Duncan, who continued, “I didn’t expect—”

“A royal welcome? I was beginning to worry you’d miss all the fun!” King Cailan smiled, clasping arms with Duncan as if they had known each other for years, veterans who sat around campfires and swapped war stories; never mind that Duncan didn’t quite seem the type for such things, but then again Solona hardly knew the man so far. What _did_ the Grey Wardens do when there were no darkspawn haunting the surface? You could never really _find_ any of them anywhere when they weren’t warning the people about Blights.

Duncan’s greeting was more reserved but respectful, bolstering Solona’s opinion that Cailan was more enamored with the legend of Duncan’s order than with the man himself. “Not if I could help it, Your Majesty.”

“Then I’ll have the mighty Duncan at my side in battle after all! Glorious!” King Cailan stood tall and cavalier, his golden ceremonial armor reflecting the sun’s light, and somehow it seemed a little too big for him, as if _he_ were made for the _armor_. Solona realized her lips were pursed in her scrutiny of the king just in time, letting her features slip into something more neutral as his attention turned to her. “The other Wardens told me you’ve found a promising recruit. I take it this is she?”

Cailan’s eyes were as shrewd as Solona’s must have been, sizing her up as he smiled; his grin widened after a moment, and she assumed he must have decided she wouldn’t disgrace her new order, at least. He brushed off Duncan’s polite attempt to introduce them to handle it himself. “Ho there, friend! Might I know your name?”

Before Solona answered, she felt Duncan’s eyes on her, as well as Irving’s voice in her head, telling her she was an apprentice no longer and needed to shed a more positive light on the Circle. “Uh… Solona, Your Majesty.” She wondered if Cailan was anything like the first enchanter, a man who was more inclined to respond to his own name and occasionally forgot he even had an honorary title.

The king nodded to her. “Pleased to meet you! The Grey Wardens are desperate to bolster their numbers, and I, for one, am glad to help them.” He stepped even closer to Solona, his voice even more cheerful as he said, “I understand you hail from the Circle of Magi. I trust you have some spells to help us in the coming battle?”

It was the weight of Duncan’s gaze still on her that kept Solona from frowning at royalty; she was fairly certain that King Cailan had never thought once of the mages in the Circle prior to the emergence of darkspawn—had he even bothered to visit the senior enchanters already gathered in the camp? “I am only recently out of apprenticeship.” Her tone might have still been a little too frosty, despite her best efforts to remain polite.

“Your abilities are still above those of other men. That the Grey Wardens have recruited you says much.” The king, to his credit, seemed to have picked up on Solona’s growing distaste for their topic of discussion, and hastened to add, “Allow me to be the first to welcome you to Ostagar. The Wardens will benefit greatly with you in their ranks.”

“We’ll see about that,” Solona muttered under her breath, more out of honest nerves than to be disagreeable, although she was irritated by Cailan’s assumption that she would know exactly what to do in a _war_ simply because she could throw a bolt of lightning at his face. She couldn’t really blame him, however, as she was sure this was the popular opinion regarding mages; at least he didn’t offer any sort of false sympathy for her “curse.” She inhaled and folded her arms across her chest, and added a much more gracious, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Cailan nodded again, seeming satisfied with their meeting, before impatience crept into his features, turning the corners of his mouth down and his eyes upward in a dramatic roll. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I must return to my tent,” he said, the hint of a sigh coloring his speech. “Loghain waits eagerly to bore me with his strategies.”

Duncan spoke again, and Solona practically _felt_ his eyes leave her periphery as he turned his attention to the king. “Your uncle sends his greetings and reminds you that Redcliffe forces could be here in less than a week.” They’d received a message from the arl from one of the sentries standing guard on Redcliffe’s outskirts—why Cailan hadn’t already sent for the arl’s troops, Solona didn’t know, but she was certain she would soon find herself a fish out of water as it was without the added complexities of military strategy.

“Ha! Eamon just wants in on the glory!” Cailan’s grin was back in place as he turned to Duncan, sounding as if he fancied himself a warrior king in a child’s storybook. “We’ve won three battles against these monsters and the next should be no different.”

Solona’s eyes darted to meet Duncan’s, her eyebrow raised in askance for clarification. “It sounds as if the Blight is almost over,” she commented, her tone lighter than the unease the king’s boasting nature was beginning to inspire deep in her gut.

“I’m not even sure this is a true Blight,” Cailan scoffed. “There are plenty of darkspawn on the field, but alas, we’ve seen no sign of an archdemon.”

“Disappointed, Your Majesty?” Duncan beat Solona to the words that had been on the tip of her tongue, itching to slip out; she was beginning to see the king more and more as a boy who played with his toy soldiers, pitting them against his darkspawn figurines with more regard for how impressive the battle looked than how many made it through alive.

“I’d hoped for a war like in the tales! A king riding with the fabled Grey Wardens against a tainted god! But I suppose this will have to do. Now, I really must go before Loghain sends out a search party. Farewell, Grey Wardens!” His last attempt at a joke did nothing to appease Solona, who was now convinced that if the king was leading the troops into battle, they would all be doomed by his desire for his name in legend. Oblivious to her less than charitable thoughts, King Cailan offered Duncan and Solona one last grin before leaving.

Solona followed Duncan’s lead and bowed after him, then stared after the king’s retreating back, not bothering to hide her disbelief now that his attention was elsewhere. She caught the shake of Duncan’s head, a long-suffering sort of dismissal, before he turned to her. “What the king says is true,” Duncan informed, his words slow and careful. “We’ve won several battles here already.”

“But?” Solona let her arms fall to her sides, and Duncan motioned for them to walk away from the gate to the nearby bridge, where Cailan’s shining armor was already nearly halfway across—would he wear that plate in battle, or settle for something less… noticeable?

“Despite the victories so far, the darkspawn horde grows larger with each passing day. By now, they look to outnumber us,” Duncan went on, drawing Solona’s focus back to the matter at hand. “I know there is an archdemon behind this, but I cannot ask the king to act solely on my feeling.”

“Why not? He seems to regard the Grey Wardens highly.”

“Yet not enough to wait for reinforcements from the Wardens of Orlais. He seems to think our legends alone make him invulnerable, but our numbers are too few. We must do what we can and look to Teyrn Loghain to make up the difference.” They halted just in front of the bridge, and Duncan turned to face her directly. “To that end, we should proceed with the Joining Ritual without delay; I am sorry to put you through another ordeal so soon, but we are pressed for time.”

Solona sighed, wondering why he hadn’t brought up information like this before. “Could I at least get something to eat first?” she asked, her fingers running along the smooth grain of her staff as her other hand pulled at her hair.

Duncan chuckled, an apology in his eyes. “I think that would be in order for both of us. I must attend to business with Loghain, but there is another Warden in the camp by the name of Alistair; find him, and he will see to the supplies you need before we must begin preparations.” His manner slipped back into preoccupied diplomacy, the same Solona had first seen in Irving’s office, and he offered her a slight nod of farewell before crossing the long bridge to the encampment on the other side.

Solona stood where she was, rocking from side to side as she watched her last lifeline to the Circle Tower walk away, leaving her to her own devices in an old fortress amidst a throng of people she didn’t know. Her nerves buzzed under her skin, making the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand on end; while she was expected to fight a horde of monsters feared for tainting the land as much as its people, she was also free to meander through the fortress without the watchful eyes of a templar on her back. The only problem with this was she wasn’t sure how to interact with these new people, and she wasn’t sure if they would be pleased to have anything to do with her.

She drew her cloak more securely around her shoulders, as if it were some kind of shield against prejudice and superstition, and determined there wasn’t much she could do with her staff aside from letting people wonder if it was a weapon or a walking stick. Unless she cast any spells, most people wouldn’t be able to smell the usual ozone that accompanied magic, and the templars would be unable to do much beyond watch her once they discovered she was to be a Grey Warden. Which she would be closer to accomplishing once she actually crossed the bridge and found this Alistair, whoever he was.


	5. hard to be saved, tough to be tender

Ostagar was far too impressive to be considered a ruin, something condemned: stone harvested from quarries and carved into elaborate battlements, standing against time and the harsh climate of the southern wetlands. Solona stood in the shadow of a Tevinter statue, awestruck by the dark forest below, and the snowy caps beyond. She’d never seen anything so beautiful as the edge of the known world, isolated by sharp gales that whistled past and drowned out all other sounds, whipping her hair against her cheeks until they stung and her eyes watered; she felt as if she could scream into the wind and it would be carried away to the woods for no one to hear. She clasped her cloak together tightly in her fist and stared at everything she could see until she was sure she wouldn’t lose the image.

She could practically feel the history in the marshes below her, secrets hidden by tall, thick trees and misty waterways. Too many people had disappeared in the Korcari Wilds, even before the darkspawn had emerged; there were stories told by firelight in the apprentice dormitories of the mage Flemeth, who gave her soul for revenge and became the Witch of the Wilds. Some of the Circle’s templars had been dispatched to the marshes to track down fleeing apostates, and the deeper into the woods they had to venture, the less likely they were to return—whether they wandered into witches or wolves, a few were never seen again.

Solona broke away from the sight when she could no longer feel her nose, her face numb and surely red as she backed away and walked slowly toward the encampment. As she reached the end of the bridge, it was almost as if someone had opened a dam, and suddenly her ears were flooded with noise: a cacophony of voices, male and female, deep and grating, yelling and gossiping. Before she could even see them, she could hear people moving around the camp as couriers delivered messages and supplies, soldiers trained and patrolled.

She tucked herself away against a wall, inconspicuous in its shade as she watched what seemed to her like all of Ferelden swarming around colorful tents and blazing fires. How was she supposed to find one man in all of this? She hadn’t even asked Duncan what Alistair _looked_ like, let alone where he might be.

Ultimately, Solona was in dire need of better shoes at the very least, and she couldn’t trade for them on her own without anything _worth_ trading. She figured her best bet would be to ask around near the army camp, and after a few more reassuring breaths than she cared to admit, she stepped out of the shadows and joined the throng of people bustling around the old fortress. She moved slowly at first, trying to deduce where most of the army might be, but she soon discovered that this left her stuck in place for minutes at a time as people who deemed their tasks more important brushed by.

Eventually she simply muscled her way through to a nearby incline, hoping to find a place up in the battlements where she could at least think. She moved away from a line of archers who were peppering targets with arrows, from swordsmen who were fighting immobile straw dummies, and tried to look for someone who wasn’t currently swinging a weapon around. Across the winding enclosure, Solona saw two soldiers standing away from the others, their gauntlets off as they leaned close to each other to gossip; she figured if they couldn’t give her any idea where to look, she might be able to at least get a better idea of the people around her.

“…Wardens from Orlais? If my pa weren’t already dead that’d stop his heart for sure,” the soldier on the left, a woman, shook her head in disbelief. “And I suppose once we’re done with these darkspawns we just keep on fighting?”

The other soldier, a man, scoffed. “I’d rather fight them painted fops than those monsters.” He paused, about to add something else to his opinion when his attention was drawn to Solona. “Uh, are we in your way?” His question was innocent enough, as he and his companion were two soldiers talking in a training yard.

“No, just… uh… looking for someone,” Solona explained, offering a smile to each soldier in turn. “His name’s Alistair? He has… um… hair, I think? And I’m assuming he’s a man.” She huffed, her eyes rolling skyward as she sought something else to narrow the search. “He’s a Warden,” she added after a moment.

The woman’s eyes brightened, and she nodded, pointing behind Solona and across the encampment. “I don’t know about this Alistair, but the Wardens are camped in the valley; you might try there.” Her finger was directing Solona’s gaze to another incline on the other side of the crowd below them, and as if to reinforce her view, the soldier added, “Past the infirmary.”

The other soldier spoke up again, this time shuddering before saying, “Didn’t they bring back two of them scouts last night that was tracking the darkspawn?”

Apparently deeming Solona sufficiently informed, the woman returned to her gossip with a cluck of her tongue. “Barely. One was already dyin’, the other minus a leg. Heard somethin’ about a giant, horned darkspawn; the injured scout’s expected to die soon…” Her hushed voice faded as Solona backed away and eased past the training soldiers again, rejoining the bustling mess in the center of the encampment.

Solona’s minor thrill of accomplishment was abruptly snuffed when the soldier stationed in front of the army’s camp told her she wasn’t allowed to pass the gate into the valley; he was polite enough, though, and suggested she try the Warden recruits’ tent, situated near the king’s. Solona doubted she’d find Alistair there or Duncan probably would have mentioned something in the first place, but she could at least try to check in with the other recruits. She heaved a sigh, wondering just how much time she’d have to spend tracking down a faceless name, and braced herself for another battle through the mass of people below.

She skirted past what appeared to be a makeshift prison, and just as reluctantly began to ease her way around the edge of the infirmary when a man on a cot reached out and latched onto her elbow, drawing her close to his pale, clammy face; his eyes were bloodshot, his skin sallow and sunken, and with a quick once-over Solona saw that he was missing a leg. “You can feel it, can’t you?” the man rasped, his voice seeming to float along on his delirium. “They taint the land, turn it black and _sick_ …” He broke into a violent, wet cough, and Solona instinctively tried to yank her arm out of his grip.

The nurse monitoring the infirmary rushed to Solona’s side, trying to calm her patient, but her attempts to hush him only made him more frantic, his fingers digging into Solona’s forearm until she cried out in pain. “They’ll swallow us _whole_!” the man sobbed, choking on the cough still racking through his body. Solona fell to her knees, trying to pry away the man’s claw-like grip, when a pair of gauntleted hands suddenly came into view, succeeding where she couldn’t and freeing her before helping the nurse push the mad man back onto his cot.

Solona pushed herself away from the infirmary, still on the ground, as the soldier who’d come to the rescue helped hold down the patient while the nurse gave him a sedative, still trying to talk some sense into him. His cries softened, broken by coughs, as his eyes glazed over and then shut, his breaths rasping in his throat as he fell into a fitful sleep. Solona stood up slowly, eyeing him warily as she tried to brush mud and grass from the back of her cloak.

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?” the soldier asked, his voice gruff. “He’s been ravin’ all day about darkspawn bein’ caterpillars, drivin’ everyone nuts; I’ve got people in them cages already for trying to desert, and I’m sure there’re gonna be too many to keep up with if he goes on like this.” He sounded put upon, but his gaze was sympathetic as he eyed the wounded man.

“What’s wrong with him?” Solona asked, wincing at how stupid the question sounded in face of the man’s _missing leg_.

The nurse sighed and mopped at her patient’s brow with a wet cloth that she seemed to have been using for quite awhile—many must have already passed through the infirmary, for better or worse, and Solona began to feel as if dread was hollowing out her insides. “Many of these men here were tainted by the darkspawn blood, y’see,” the nurse said softly, tucking her cloth into a satchel hanging at her hip and rising to her feet. “This one might get through this injury, provided there’s no infection and the Maker wills it, but his mind…”

Solona did her best not to stare at the bandages wrapped around the gaping wound where the man’s leg should have been, remembering what the other soldier had said about a giant, horned darkspawn; she knew that they were dangerous in combat after countless tales of previous Blights, but the tales had also told of monsters that tainted even the land and sky and she had half thought they were exaggerations. She ran her fingers over her arm, already feeling bruises forming where the soldier’s nails had nearly broken her skin in his feverish desperation. She didn’t want to be in the infirmary any longer, and she was beginning to have serious doubts about Ostagar as well—all in all, her first day as a recruit had been… educational so far, and she hadn’t yet achieved her first objective.

“You may not want to stay here long,” the nurse said, moving closer to Solona so she could look her over, but Solona stepped back, holding her arm against her chest underneath her cloak; she was unsure if revealing herself as a mage in her present company was a good idea. The nurse shrugged and removed a kerchief from another satchel, blowing her nose and dabbing at her bloodshot eyes; she looked as if she hadn’t had a break in days, a healer without the aid of magic or a simple assistant.

“Haven’t any of the… mages offered to help you here?” Solona asked, catching herself before she referred to her superiors as senior enchanters, as she doubted many outside the Circle used any title other than “mage.”

The nurse sighed. “Yes, they have,” she answered, sounding just a little bitter as she stuffed her kerchief back into its satchel. “I’d appreciate the help, but a lot of the soldiers and—truth be told—priests start getting nervous when a mage works a spell on a body, even if she’s only tryin’ to help.” She cleared her throat, massaging her neck and rolling her shoulders, before she turned back to her drove of dying men, offering an “excuse me” over her shoulder as she knelt by a cot.

Solona was left with the soldier who’d aided her, and they both stood awkwardly, as if they weren’t sure if they should follow the nurse’s lead and return to whatever they’d been doing before a crazy man had nearly broken her arm. Then the soldier seemed to shake himself a little, and he said, “Orright, I’d been meanin’ to tell you, you might want to try the Magi encampment.” Solona eyed him blankly, wondering if the man had figured out she was a mage. “For that man you’re looking for,” he continued after a moment. “I heard you talkin’ to Garric back there, but this fellow grabbed you before I could catch up.”

“Oh!” Solona’s smile was relieved. “Thanks, for… um… everything.” She proffered her sore arm, as if she could give it to him if he wanted compensation for his efforts. The soldier issued a quick, sort of impatient but genuine chuckle, and gingerly shook her hand. As he was beginning to return to his post, Solona asked, “What’s he doing in the Magi encampment?”

The soldier half-turned as he continued to walk away. “Message from Her Reverence.” Since the soldier was preoccupied with his duties, Solona couldn’t ask him the numerous questions that popped into her head, such as why the revered mother would summon a Grey Warden to deliver a message to a senior enchanter, but she filed politics away with military strategy as subjects she would have to mull over later. The soldier had already reached the other side of the battlement, standing at attention in front of the prison cages, leaving Solona with nothing more to do than find the mages’ tent.

It wasn’t hard to distinguish the Circle’s camp from the rest, standing out with its rich violet tent and its band of templars guarding the entrance. Solona approached them with a sense of trepidation—they couldn’t do much more than bar her from the premises, but she didn’t want to alienate herself from the mages as well as the templars by throwing her recruitment into their faces and announcing she was free from Chantry oversight. One templar seemed to ignore her, as Solona was unable to see where his gaze was directed, and two others merely maintained their post in front of two trees, sufficiently barring intruders as well as penning in the mages.

However, the templar nearest her turned as she came closer, his visor tilting to fix on the staff in her hand, and said in a bored tone, “Where’s your guard?” He stepped aside and gestured as if to usher her into the tent.

Solona bit down on the inside of her cheek. _Well, this is already going wonderfully._ “I don’t have one,” she said, trying to be as polite as possible—Warden or no, she still needed to be able to move around the encampment without worrying about a big man in armor swinging a sharp sword at her head. “I’m here with the Wardens.” The templar straightened, but didn’t press the issue of her freedom. In fact, he said nothing else as his large body continued to effectively block her way into the mages’ camp. “I need to ask the senior enchanters if—”

“The mages are in the Fade,” the templar cut her off, his voice still bored, but final. “They are not to be disturbed, even by Grey Wardens.”

Solona’s lips pursed and her eyes squinted up at the impassive visor in front of her. _Yes, everything is just peachy._ “How long do you think they’ll be in the Fade?” she asked, unable to keep just a little of her annoyance from slipping into her tone.

“I don’t know, and I don’t ask.” The templar’s helm angled away from her, facing straight ahead as he dismissed her presence. Solona’s teeth ground together as she wondered if she could find Duncan and tell him she couldn’t track down Alistair because templars were idiots—would _every_ templar resent her freedom? It wasn’t as if she was skipping through a field of daisies; she was a bleeding _Warden_ , for Andraste’s sake.

Before her impatience got the better of her and all attempts at diplomacy were thrown into the wind, Solona heard a familiar voice behind her, just off to her left. “Solona? What are you doing here?”

Solona nearly closed her eyes in relief, silently thanking whatever force had delivered her a break, however temporary it was. She turned to face a woman she had known nearly all of her life, silvery-white hair pulled back from her face in a no-nonsense manner, blue eyes sharp with wit, not malice, and thin lips that could calm a nervous apprentice with a soft smile or twist into a smirk wryer than even Solona’s: Senior Enchanter Wynne. Solona exhaled, clutching at her bangs as she shrugged at the elder mage. “Joined the Wardens. How’ve you been?”

Wynne’s eyebrows shot up, and she set her armful of crafting supplies on the ground to better look her over. “You were recruited?” she asked, prompting Solona for details she wasn’t quite ready to give, especially in the presence of a templar who was already less than receptive. “What happened?” Wynne pressed when Solona remained silent, her eyes still darting over every bit of her that she could see as she determined if she was all right.

“My… new mentor, I guess, sent me after some Warden named Alistair,” Solona answered, deliberately misunderstanding the question. “Have you seen him? And if you have, could you tell me what he looks like, because that would really clear up this whole mess.”

Wynne’s lips pursed, and she hummed much in the same way Duncan did, then nodded and gestured behind her toward yet another level of the fortress. “I just returned from the other side of the camp, but the templars may have sent him after Cyril; he’s up in that old temple, storing some of the Tranquils’ rune stones.” Her eyes darted to the templars at the same time Solona’s did, and Solona was fairly certain Wynne was also silently thanking them for being so damn helpful.

“Thanks,” Solona said to Wynne, though her eyes were still directed pointedly at the templar, who was just as pointedly silent and motionless. She nodded to Wynne before she took off in the direction of the temple, hoping that Alistair hadn’t already moved on so she could end this ridiculous chase as well as eliminate the need to talk to Senior Enchanter Cyril about anything. She ran up the stone ramp, promising her protesting feet that they would have new shoes soon, and slowed as she reached the landing, hearing yet more raised voices—did she always have to walk in on arguments?

“…more than enough of the Circle?” Cyril sounded like his usual pompous self, although he had drawn himself up even straighter. He was facing a man who couldn’t have been much older than Solona, standing at least half a head taller than her and wearing a suit of mail that was far from new, but well-kept.

She watched as who she presumed was Alistair held up a hand as if to reassure Cyril. “I simply came to deliver a message from the revered mother, ser mage. She desires your presence.” His voice was friendly enough, easy, his features neutral but polite, but his message wasn’t something Cyril wanted to hear; she had to give the man credit, because even _he_ looked like he wanted to wince at how uncomfortable the message sounded.

“What Her Reverence ‘desires’ is of no concern to me!” Cyril spat, his knuckles turning white as he clutched at his staff in indignation. “ _I_ am busy helping the Grey Wardens—by the _king’s_ orders, I might add!”

Solona was debating stepping in and pointing out that setting the messenger on fire would be a little extreme, but then Alistair’s hand dropped to his side as his eyebrow arched impressively. “Should I have asked her to write a note?” he asked, feigning innocence.

“Tell her I will not be harassed in this manner!” Cyril growled, thumping the butt of his staff against the stone floor of the temple. Alistair didn’t seem threatened, which served to make the senior enchanter’s face redder than it already was. Solona was torn, knowing that Cyril would take offense to an apprentice _blinking_ during one of his lectures, even if the revered mother’s request was most likely nothing more than passive-aggressive bullying.

“Yes, _I_ was harassing _you_ by delivering a message.” Alistair was falsely cheerful, mocking, and Solona wasn’t sure what to make of him—she didn’t think he walked around pissing off every mage in the camp simply because they were mages, but she knew Cyril more than she knew him, as they hadn’t even been introduced yet. On the other hand, she was somewhat intrigued by his talent for making Cyril’s nostrils flare.

“Your glibness does you no credit,” Cyril said bluntly when his show of staff-waving didn’t work.

“And here I thought we were getting along _so well_ ,” Alistair retorted, abandoning all previous efforts at diplomacy. “I was even going to name one of my children after you… the _grumpy_ one.”

“Enough. I’ll speak to the woman _if I must_.” Cyril pivoted and stormed off, nearly crashing into Solona, who’d eased closer as they squabbled. “Get out of my way, _fool_ ,” he barked, probably not even noticing nor caring who she was as he roughly brushed past. Both Solona and Alistair watched him stomp away from the temple, his nose turned up so high Solona wondered how many more people he would bump into on his way to wherever the Chantry had set up their makeshift chapel—the “old temple” might have been the logical choice, but once again, strategy and politics.

Solona seemed to recover from the spectacle at the same time as Alistair, who moved a few paces closer to her and tilted his head. “I don’t know you, do I?” Now that he was closer, Solona was able to study him more effectively, noting that he was handsome in a way that generally put her on guard and made her self-conscious—she’d found it was often that people who looked as appealing as he did were _aware_ of the fact and tried to exploit it, and at the moment Solona felt less than spectacular with her tangled hair and a body and clothes that hadn’t been properly washed in three days. _So, at least it’s an_ honest _first impression._

Snap judgments aside, he had short, light brown hair, and the odd angle at which it stood up over his forehead implied that he most likely clutched it as often as Solona did her own. His eyes were also a warm, light brown, and he had the shadow of stubble along his jaw that came from being a soldier on the road. Solona realized he was waiting for her to answer him while she stared, and she bit down on her cheek before answering, “Not yet. I’m Solona.”

Alistair’s eyes darted to Cyril’s haughtily retreating back before returning to Solona, his generous mouth pursed dubiously. “Don’t suppose you happen to be another mage?”

Solona felt a weight begin to sink in her stomach, and she resisted the urge to ensure her cloak was still concealing her robes while willing Alistair to not immediately notice the staff in her hand. “Would that make your day worse?” she asked, keeping her tone light.

Alistair laughed. “Hardly. I just like to know my chances of being turned into a toad at any given moment.” It was precisely then that his eyes fell on Solona’s staff, and she could practically feel him mentally kicking himself. His eyes widened minimally in a way that Solona could only consider comical, despite his rather superstitious blunder, but she merely kept her lips from twitching so she could watch him squirm.

She spoke before Alistair could begin sputtering an apology, at least satisfied that he didn’t try to accuse her of sneaking up on him. “Duncan said you could help me find what I need,” she explained, finally smirking.

Alistair exhaled in relief, and the smile he gave her was relieved and easy, as if his features were predisposed to humor. “You’re the new recruit from the Circle of Magi.” He laughed off his nerves and embarrassment, gesturing toward himself. “I’m Alistair, although I guess you knew that.” Solona nodded slowly, smirk still in place, and he went on quickly, “Yes. Ah, as the junior member of the order, I’ll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining.”

“Prepare for the Joining?” Solona asked, her smirk dissolving into something more serious. “It can’t be done alone?” She was becoming increasingly worried about how dangerous this ritual seemed to be rather than working with Alistair, who struck her as less antagonistic and more inclined to put his foot in his mouth.

Alistair rubbed the back of his neck, grinning disarmingly. “I know. I felt the same way when I did this. Unfortunately, they don’t give us much choice.” He shrugged and let his hand drop to his side, then cleared his throat and sort of shook himself, as if remembering why they were talking in the first place. “Right. Let’s get what you need first.” He ushered her away from the temple, pointing out different people he knew to Solona and telling her which part of the encampment was what as they walked.

He had a talent for talking about everything, Solona quickly realized, and while she normally did as well, she was currently eager to pick up on any information that might hint at what was expected of her. Also like Solona, Alistair had a knack for avoiding subjects he didn’t want to address, and her one attempt at bringing up the impending Joining was rather cleverly but obviously skirted by a joke about how he’d had to wear a dress and dance the remigold. He reminded Solona of an apprentice who had just returned from the Harrowing, wanting but unable to talk about it, which provided her with a sense of familiarity along with more dread of what was coming.

Instead of pressing the issue and risking alienation or outright resentment, Solona asked, “So… how long have you been a Warden?”

“About six months. I was conscripted, not that I didn’t want to join.” Alistair stopped walking, and Solona slowed a pace ahead, turning to look at him curiously; he was scratching his neck again, and eyeing the ground at her feet instead of meeting her gaze. They were both silent for a moment, prompting Solona to brace herself for news from him that she probably didn’t want to hear, and then he finally looked up, clearing his throat. “Duncan found me in the Chantry; I was training as a templar. I know you’re a mage, but it wasn’t my idea,” he rushed on as Solona’s eyes widened and her grip tightened around her staff. “I was raised in the Chantry, and they decided my fate a long time ago.”

Solona had stopped listening, her attention on the smooth, stained wood of the staff beneath the pad of her thumb. She stared blankly at a point just above Alistair’s hair as her frustration threatened to boil over; ever since she’d left the Circle Tower, she’d been prepared to prove to the Wardens, to the Chantry, to Ferelden that mages didn’t need surly templars hovering obtrusively even when the king sent for the Circle’s help in a war. While Alistair was far from surly and had done nothing deliberately to make her feel unwelcome, he was still a templar, and at the moment he represented both Greagoir—who believed that locking mages up kept _them_ safe as well as those outside—and the fool in front of the Magi camp who simply liked to remind mages that they were dangerous.

Between feeling as if her freedom was all a sugarcoated lie, the darkspawn threat that was becoming more and more real to her the longer she remained in the hinterlands, and the new ordeal looming over everything else just like the Harrowing, Solona was _frightened_. Rather than admit she was afraid, she tended to lash out angrily, and often at people who didn’t deserve her ire. Instead of venting all of what she felt on a man who had, so far, been nothing but helpful to her, she mumbled something too garbled in her throat for even her to understand and walked away as quickly from him as her dazed mind would allow.

He may have called after her, but she merely wove her way through the crowd, trying to put as many people between herself and Alistair as possible. She dug her heels into the mossy earth, trying to literally stomp out the tension cording through her limbs, and wound up in front of the mages’ camp before she registered her feet had actually been taking her somewhere other than away from one too many shocks for one day—or a week, really, considering what had happened just days before. Solona looked around the tents, ignoring the templars, and was relieved to see Wynne still working outside of the mages’ pen; she wanted a familiar face, someone she could talk to.

Wynne saw her approaching and straightened, stepping away from the small cast iron cauldron she’d been adding herbs to. “Are you all right?” she asked, brows furrowed with concern as Solona merely stood in front of her, her breaths harsh and shallow.

“I…” Solona trailed off, feeling ridiculous now that she was facing someone as collected as Wynne, and her usual reluctance to admit to any kind of emotional vulnerability was starting to kick her in the ass. “Um… it’s… different here,” she explained lamely, her features scrunching together as she berated herself.

Wynne’s eyebrow arched wryly, but then she drew up, her arms folding. “Yes, it is,” she agreed, her tone very matter-of-fact. “Did you find who you were looking for?” She matched Solona’s answering nod with one of her own, then said, “Then I suggest you go back to your new order, Solona.” Her eyes softened when Solona twitched as if she’d been slapped. “You don’t have much _time_ , and you won’t adjust if you spend all of it here talking to _me_.” She spared one more sympathetic glance before adding another handful of herbs to the water boiling in front of her. “Now, I have preparations to make and I won’t be distracted.”

Solona didn’t bother sparing the elder mage from her hurt glare, the sting of rejection too fresh for her to acknowledge Wynne’s advice, and she stormed off when Wynne only continued to monitor whatever she was brewing in her cauldron. She knew she must have appeared as ridiculous as Cyril, bustling through a crowd of people toward the bridge that would lead her back to the highway, but she could feel hot tears beginning to form in the corners of her eyes and she didn’t want to cry in the middle of a camp full of men. She knew she couldn’t just leave Ostagar, but she hoped to find _some_ place that had considerably less people for her to snap at.

She all but ran across the bridge, her mind only partly registering that her feet were still mournfully bootless, and wound up down a hill that ended with what must have once been an old dome facing out toward more of the surrounding Wilds. She slumped against an old support beam, sliding down onto the worn stone floor, and sprawled out her limbs to her sides as she tilted her head back and closed her eyes. She took in a deep breath and held it until her lungs ached, then released it shakily, trying to expel all of the negativity threatening to weigh her down.

She wasn’t angry with Alistair, nor with Wynne; if anything, she was cursing herself for acting like a little mage girl who’d just come to the Circle for the first time. And really, if she compared the experiences they were relatively the same, but this time around she was an adult and yet she still wound up stomping around and clenching her teeth until her jaw ached so she wouldn’t cry. Wynne was right, and the only reason she felt so alone right now was because, despite her desire to be free of the Circle, she was still refusing to move on and become a part of something else; she was walking around the encampment while she tried to hide who she was with a simple cloak.

She sighed again, her breath less broken this time, and opened her eyes, feeling the wind dry the tears that had collected on her lashes. Her hand reached up and pulled at the drawstring of her cloak, untying it so it opened around her shoulders and exposed the orange and blue of her robes, the emblem of the Circle staring up at her from her lap. There were still the faintest traces of blood staining parts of her skirt, and some of it darkened the embroidered sunburst that was so similar to the one stitched into a templar’s ceremonial sash.

She’d seen men dying today, she’d heard soldiers whispering of the horrors waiting just out of sight, and still whatever the Joining was waited for her. Solona closed her eyes again, determined not to shrink away from the final image of Jowan and blood magic, of templars sprawled on the floor like broken dolls, and instead allowed it to resolve in her mind’s eye. She traced her thumb over the raised thread of a sunbeam on her skirt, solidifying her new resolution along with the image: she would get through the Joining as she had the Harrowing because she had to achieve something for herself that wasn’t tainted by blood magic.

She hoped Alistair hadn’t already written her off as another weird, self-important Circle mage, as up until his admittedly awkward reveal he hadn’t been unpleasant to talk to; he’d probably been building up to telling her what he was the moment he realized she was a mage. He’d done nothing to suggest he was anything more than straightforward and prone to social fumbling—they were probably suited to either wind up best friends or hating each other. Besides, indulging in their previous orders’ deep-seated reservations about each other was likely to get them both killed in the face of the darkspawn horde; between the soldiers griping about Orlesian reinforcements, and the Chantry bearing its huge thumb down on the Circle, it was a miracle that the army had managed to win any battles so far. 

Still, Solona had made an ass of herself in public, even if Alistair and Wynne were most likely the only people who had noticed, and it wasn’t something she enjoyed apologizing for. She scowled at her worse-for-wear shoes, reluctant to return to the recruits’ camp and acknowledge her immaturity no matter how much her feet wanted her to. _No, better to sit here and pout like a child while the darkspawn kill us all._

___

Getting long underwear for a woman when Alistair had no real idea of what her size was inside the general outline of her cloak was no small feat; for one, the look the quartermaster gave him when he described her as a woman with “hips and… what have you” was enough to make him give up on the whole thing. However, as he felt he’d successfully ruined any chance of at least a _working_ relationship with Duncan’s newest recruit after insulting another mage and crashing into his templar training with the finesse of a bull in a room full of fine porcelain, he figured she deserved to at least be warm. He’d set up an armful of supplies against a broken wall near the recruits’ fire and dropped down on the ground next to them so he could apologize when Solona returned.

He began to worry as the sun moved further across the sky; while he didn’t want Solona to feel as if he was crowding her, he also didn’t want her to be wandering around a strange camp alone after it grew dark—if she was anything like him, she was likely to walk right off one of the battlements and fall to her death. Just as he was about to get up and look for her, her voice startled him from somewhere to his left; for a mage, she didn’t make much noise when she moved. “So, what’s a templar like you doing in a ruin like this?”

Alistair rose quickly to his feet, hoping she wouldn’t notice how she’d made him jump with her sudden reappearance. “You’re back,” he blurted out. “Which I’m sure you’ve noticed by now,” he added, scratching the back of his neck as Solona’s lips twitched upward in the hint of a grin. He gestured behind him at her new belongings. “I think I managed to get everything you’ll need.”

Before he could say he was sorry for being the Wardens’ biggest ass, Solona cleared her throat and mirrored his earlier action, scratching the back of her head and further tousling her hair. “Thanks. I’m… um… sorry about earlier.” She didn’t quite meet his eyes, instead looking at some part of his chin.

Alistair snorted, surprised to be _receiving_ an apology. “I thought I might have made things uncomfortable for you after I yelled at another mage.” He willed her to meet his eyes again, hoping she wouldn’t shrink away because of his templar training.

“Technically, he yelled at you,” Solona pointed out. “You shouldn’t worry about that too much though: Cyril yells at everybody.”

Alistair still felt he owed Solona some sort of explanation. “I wouldn’t have delivered the revered mother’s message, but Duncan said that we were all to cooperate and get along; that’s one good thing about the Blight, how it brings people together.”

It was Solona’s turn to snort, her arms crossing as she toed at the ground with shoes that had seen better days—much, much better. “I’m beginning to see what you mean.” She eyed the people passing by the recruits’ camp, activity dying down in the late afternoon as everyone set about getting something to eat. Alistair took a brief moment to study Solona as her gaze was fixed elsewhere: brown eyes that were close together in a way that seemed shrewd, and complimented by a small mouth that always appeared ready to smirk.

She had short, dark brown hair that was cut off just below her jaw, lacking any of the braids that most women seemed to favor, and higher cheekbones than was common in Ferelden, suggesting that she might have come from somewhere further north. She’d removed her cloak since she’d left him, letting it drape loosely over her arms, and Alistair noted that it had been oversized and probably borrowed; her build was… solid, not waif-thin like some noblewomen often aspired to be, but not fat. And he’d been right about the curves—there was no doubt she was… er… female.

Alistair laughed, a little nervously, as if Solona could hear his thoughts, and quipped, “It’s like a party; we can all stand in a circle and hold hands; _that_ would give the darkspawn something to think about.” While this had the desired effect and Solona finally met his eyes again with her own, this also meant that she would probably notice the flush of heat that had started spreading across his cheeks.

“As if you dancing around in a dress wouldn’t be enough; I know _I_ wouldn’t mind a repeat performance, especially if I’m expected to do the same.” The smile she gave him was stronger this time, easier.

“Yes, well, as long as it’s a pretty dress.” Alistair was beginning to feel that, if Solona was successfully initiated into the Wardens, he wouldn’t be the only one who laughed at his jokes. “So, aside from my sordid templar past, is there anything else you want to know?” He was relieved when she asked the more general questions about the Wardens and the Blights, rather than the one he knew was standing between them like some hulking bear, and he answered to the best of his ability while Solona bent over her new belongings and sorted through them, thanking him and occasionally humming in approval. _Oh, good, she likes the long underwear._

Solona had just finished replacing her shoes with used but sturdy leather boots when Duncan returned to the Warden recruits’ campfire; his eyes met Alistair’s in a particularly grave manner that could only mean the teyrn’s scouts had brought news that was even more unpleasant than they’d anticipated. “Let me guess: no tromping through darkspawn infested marshes today?” He noticed Solona’s eyes fix on them intently, but he continued to look up at Duncan.

“The teyrn’s men are still securing the outskirts; there was some trouble last night, and Ash Warriors are preparing to scout the area now.” He drew to a stop in front of both of them, his dark eyes still pointedly on him. “The Joining will have to wait for another day, but I believe there are other matters requiring your attention, provided you’re finished riling up other mages.”

“What can I say? The way the revered mother wields guilt, they should stick her in the army.” He then remembered that the woman sitting next to him was also a mage and kicked himself for the umpteenth time that day. “But… uh… I’ll apologize.”

Duncan nodded. “We can’t afford to antagonize anyone, Alistair; we don’t need anymore ammunition against us.” With one more pointed look of disapproval, he seemed to have said all he wished to on the matter and left in the direction of the army camp, probably looking for the rest of the Wardens. Alistair heaved a sigh and turned to Solona, who was still watching him.

“So we’ll be going into the Wilds?” she asked, her bangs falling over her eyes and hiding her expression. Alistair wasn’t sure if she was worried about venturing into the forest or if she was wondering where to go to get a meal; he assumed that all of the secrecy and the fact that the Korcari Wilds were chockfull of tainted monsters made her more inclined toward the former, although now he noticed his stomach was growling.

“Well, you can’t expect a real show of the remigold unless you’re doing it in a swamp,” Alistair said, giving away as much as he was able, as Duncan had already mentioned the Wilds himself. Solona remained pensive as could only be expected, so Alistair rose to his feet and stretched, hoping to distract her from thoughts that would only end in sleepless nights and hair loss. “I don’t know about you, but I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and if we don’t move in on the chow line soon I doubt there’ll be much left worth eating.”

Solona peered up at him from the ground, her eyebrow raised somewhere in her mess of bangs, before pushing herself up to join him. She winced a little as she tested the wear of her boots—they’d take some breaking in, but they’d still offer more protection in the Wilds. After a moment, she said, “It’d be nice to eat something hot. And possibly not stale, if there’s anything like that available.”

Alistair began to lead them toward a larger section of the fortress, one big enough for a mass of people to slaver over food that was just on the tolerable side of bland. “It’s most likely stew, so definitely not stale and possibly still hot.” He noticed Solona’s pace slow just a little as they passed the Magi encampment, and felt a pang of understanding: she was caught in a weird sort of crossroads in her life, and even if she’d hated the Circle Tower, the mages in those tents were still what was familiar and didn’t raise as many unanswered questions. “No matter where you go in Ferelden, the stew’s always the same.”

Solona turned to look up at him with that same eyebrow raised again, but this time she was giving him a real smile, however teasing. “Right. So stew’s the great unifier against the Blight?”

Alistair snorted. “Hardly. You may think the Wilds is your _real_ test, but just you wait until you’re up against hundreds of hungry soldiers.”


	6. upside down and i can't stop it now

The Ash Warriors returned sometime in the early morning, long before the sun rose. Their report was only slightly less grim than the last scouting party’s, as they had managed to return, but they declared that the outskirts of the Wilds were secure, that the darkspawn had retreated deeper into the forest. When Duncan summoned all of the recruits, Solona was already wide awake after a restless night; she’d slept in her robes, holding her staff close as every rustle, every creak or chirp or snap from the bordering trees sounded very much like darkspawn sneaking into the camp. Short of getting something to eat before she threw herself at whatever trials awaited her, everything she needed was already packed up and on her person, ready to go.

She sat by the broken wall near the bonfire, picking at a tin of lumpy porridge as she waited on the other recruits to arrive and noting with no small amount of trepidation that Alistair was just as wide awake as she was, and far more quiet than he had been the day before. It wasn’t long before one of the prospective Wardens arrived, a large, slightly stocky man with a plain face and thinning, brown hair. Before any introductions could be made, his eyebrows raised a fraction as he noticed her and he said, “I wasn’t aware women were permitted into the Grey Wardens.”

His statement sounded more like genuine surprise rather than an attempt to charm or break the ice, and Solona remained silent, unsure of just how she was supposed to take his idea of an introduction. After a few seconds, he seemed to realize that she wasn’t going to offer any sort of explanation to her presence and continued, “Ser Jory is my name; I hail from Redcliffe.” At this, Solona’s eyes were drawn to Alistair as she thought she heard him mutter something under his breath, but when she looked he was merely staring at the flames of the bonfire, lips pursed as tensely as they had been since he’d brought them both breakfast.

Before anyone could say anything else, another man appeared at Jory’s side out of seemingly nowhere, slightly shorter than both Jory and Alistair and wiry, his complexion sun-kissed and his hair dark and curly. “Don’t get Ser Knight started on that wife he’s got waiting back at home,” he warned, his voice light and melodic where Jory’s was refined but heavy, almost naturally doleful. “I’ve heard enough about her pretty eyes to get me nice and jealous already.” His eyes alighted on Solona and his eyebrows also rose. “Well, you’re not what I thought you’d be. Name’s Daveth.”

Solona wondered just how many times she’d baffle people with her gender. “Solona. Decidedly female.” She set her mostly eaten cereal aside and rose to her feet, shrugging so her cloak engulfed her shoulders to help lock out the chill of the early morning.

Alistair finally spoke up, his voice soft and speculative. “You know, there _haven’t_ been many women in the Grey Wardens. I wonder why that is?” There was a teasing glint to his eyes that hadn’t been present since last evening.

Solona heaved a long-suffering sigh, but met Alistair’s eyes to reassure that she wasn’t annoyed. “Maybe we’re too smart for you.”

Alistair was quick to grin. “What does that make you then?” he asked wryly.

“One of the boys, apparently.” Solona rolled her eyes skyward, a small smile on her lips all the same.

“ _Aye_ , ser,” Daveth said, his voice considerably closer than it had been previously. “Where’d the old bugger find a girl like you?” Alistair seemed to stiffen at his chosen descriptor for Duncan, or perhaps for the all but predatory grin he was giving Solona, but otherwise remained silent, his arms crossed as he waited for said “old bugger” to return to the camp; even so, his frown had returned.

Solona decided there wasn’t much point in trying to hide the fact that she was a mage from the recruits, especially since it was better for them to find out now than out in the swamp. “The Circle Tower.” She refrained from asking Daveth just what type of girl he thought she was, deciding she would rather not allow him to answer. She carefully noted that while Daveth’s reaction to her news was next to nonexistent, a simple quirk of his eyebrow as he continued to grin, Jory’s eyes widened noticeably and darted to Alistair, who was studying the other recruits with just as much scrutiny as Solona; their gazes met briefly in understanding before Solona turned back to Daveth. “I’m Solona. I’m female. I light things on fire.”

“I’ll bet,” Daveth said, leaning even closer.

“I also electrocute things when I get twitchy,” Solona deadpanned, casually picking up her staff from its resting place on the ground near her feet. “So make sure your hands stay on that bow of yours.” Daveth’s grin widened even further, but he kept his distance; she’d dealt with far worse than him before, the raging hormones of teenaged boys making him seem relatively tame by comparison.

Between anxiety about venturing into the Wilds and Jory’s repeated glances at Solona’s staff, they didn’t talk much more before Duncan arrived, returning from yet another meeting with Teyrn Loghain and his scouting routes, and Solona randomly wondered if his black hair was always so impeccably tied back as she thought of her own sleep-tousled head. He stood next to Alistair, facing the three recruits, and hummed, nearly spurring Solona to mimic him again with one of her own in an attempt to expel her nervous energy. “You’re all here,” he announced, nodding his approval. “You four will be heading into the Korcari Wilds to perform two tasks. The first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood—one for each recruit.”

Solona’s eyes snapped up to fix on Duncan’s, studying his expression. His features may have been impassive, but he seemed to be pointedly avoiding her silent question: why would they need to collect _blood_? A new kind of dread began to sink into Solona’s gut, chilling her in a way the wakening mountain winds couldn’t. Furtive glances to her left confirmed that Jory and Daveth were just as unnerved by this objective, but she assumed for different reasons, although coming into close contact with poisonous blood was probably already unpleasant enough. “And the second?” she prompted, electing to keep her thoughts to herself, knowing that Duncan—and most likely Alistair—would be aware she had them.

“There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts. It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls may have been left behind, magically sealed in a chest to protect them. Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can.”

“We will,” Alistair confirmed, standing straighter as Duncan’s gaze focused on him, but Solona still had concerns she couldn’t quite keep quiet.

“Is this also part of our Joining?” she asked softly, her features neutral as both recruits watched her; she didn’t want to unnerve everyone when they would have to rely on their wits in a place as notoriously dangerous as the Wilds.

“No,” Duncan admitted, “but the effort must be made and I’m sure you will find the blood you need on your way to the outpost.” His eyes swept over all three recruits and Alistair, a weight behind his dark eyes that reminded her of Irving standing in the Harrowing Chamber, before adding, “I have every confidence that you are up to the task. Watch over your charges, Alistair. Return quickly and safely.”

Alistair nodded, his strong jaw set in determination, and Duncan addressed all of them once more. “May the Maker watch over your path. I will see you all when you return.” He then turned and walked away toward the valley, leaving them with nothing to do but venture into the Korcari Wilds.

Solona angled her head to the right, leaning her weight against her staff as she eyed the border’s gate pensively. The darkspawn lurked beyond those walls, a forgotten threat that seemed almost too horrible to be real; while she’d initially thought they had to prove they were capable enough to kill them, the revelation that they would also be collecting their blood disturbed her on no small level—Duncan may have only wanted a way to track them, but she doubted it. Not to mention, on top of all of her reservations, Solona was still expected to fight monsters and who knew what else, and the most combat training she’d received was from Fade spirits and sentinels in the basement.

She must have spent a second too long staring at the imposing gate, because Daveth was suddenly even closer, practically breathing on her neck, and she could feel his hand encroaching on the small of her back as he said in a teasing sort of lilt, “ _I’ll_ watch your back if you watch mine.”

Solona hummed lowly, sounding just enough like Duncan that all three men paused to look at her, then she tilted her head in Daveth’s direction and murmured, “I _am_ feeling a little _twitchy_.” She allowed the tiniest jolt of electricity to crackle between her index finger and thumb, and then she gripped her staff firmly and made her way toward the entrance to the Wilds. Alistair fell into step beside her, the hint of a grin on his lips as he pressed on ahead to wave the all clear at the gate guard, and she heard Daveth laughing behind her as he saddled on his gear and loped easily to catch up; Jory hung back longer than necessary, his aversion to her magic conspicuous as he hurried past Solona to stride alongside Alistair.

_Oh, won’t this just be fun?_

___

The Korcari Wilds were dark and gorgeous, mysterious and exotic, presenting a foreign kind of danger that both thrilled Solona as well as put her on edge. She was quiet as they splashed through the wetlands, the hem of her robes already soaked after traversing their first pond despite her best efforts; where traveling the Imperial Highway had been tough but stable, the Wilds were far from it and she didn’t have any time to adjust to this new terrain. Instead, Alistair set a cautious but steady pace deeper into the marsh, just as silent as she save for the occasional order to hold still or shut up—while the latter didn’t apply to Solona, it certainly addressed the other two recruits as Jory gradually seemed to find his voice in order to _complain_ and Daveth jumped at the opportunity to bait him.

Jory continued to plod ahead awkwardly in his attempts to stay as close as possible to the Grey Warden in their party, his heavy footfalls stirring enough murk and muck to coat even Solona, who followed behind the three more seasoned fighters. He would occasionally ask a question he may have thought was subtle, such as now as he leaned in close and yet still whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Are we truly prepared to undertake such a risk? She’s struggling to keep up as it is.” The way he said “she” sounded akin to Solona’s current distaste for pond scum as it clung to her robes, tinting them a sickly green; while his observation was more or less accurate, Solona’s next step was pointed, plowing into the swamp with a particularly vicious splash.

“Would you prefer to wait until we’re charging the bulk of the horde, Ser Knight?” Daveth drawled, sparing Alistair a response; his gait was easier as he navigated the unstable mud of the Wilds, more familiar. “‘Sides, if you’re so concerned for the lady here, you might as well stop drawing the attention of _every darkspawn in the Wilds_ with all the bloody racket you’re making.”

Where Jory had presented himself as a trained warrior, arriving at the camp with a suit of mail and the type of broadsword that Solona understood took a great amount of discipline and strength to lift, let alone wield, Daveth had confirmed himself as a more roguish fighter as they trekked further along the outskirts, a bow strapped over his shoulder and a pouch secured to his belt that Solona would bet was a set of lock picks. Meanwhile, Alistair carried a sword and shield, picking his way through the swamp with the care that came from experience, leading Solona to wonder if Jory had become complacent after standing guard at Redcliffe or fighting in tournaments over the years.

They’d covered a fair amount of distance away from the walls of Ostagar, marked by Jory and Daveth’s arguing, and as they neared part of an old Tevinter ruin, Alistair deemed they’d traveled long enough for a break to at least refill their water skins, or in Solona’s case, wring out the skirt of her robes. She immediately moved as far away from Jory as was blessedly possible, stopping close to the ruin the marsh had nearly reclaimed; moss covered what must have once been a row of stately pillars, and an old, fallen tree had done further damage to its barely visible frieze. She would have loved to explore here when she wasn’t in the middle of a questionable ritual while the forest teemed with waiting monsters.

After she’d done as much as she could with her robes, her nose wrinkling as her fingers touched slimy pond residue that she considered wiping off on Jory’s still-complaining face, she filled her water skin with water that was less stagnant than most of the nearby ponds. As water burbled into the mouth of her water skin, her satchel slipped on her arm, almost as if to remind her of its presence, and Solona looked around, considering the abundance of herbs growing freely in the mineral-rich mud. She took a sip of water, grimacing at its taste, and sealed the lid tightly before she pulled out several vials and began to fill them with fresh stalks of deathroot.

Alistair, who’d also put in his best effort to avoid the other bickering recruits, noticed her working and asked in a hopeful tone, “Poultices?”

Solona snorted. “Perhaps, if I were a twisted individual… which I suppose I am, if you were to ask half of the Circle.” She proffered one of the vials toward Alistair, shaking it lightly from side to side. “Elfroot helps soothe the pain, and _deathroot_ makes you not care about it so much, on account of no longer being alive.” She eyed the bright, yellowish-green frond curled in the glass. “Never had much talent for poultices, but I can distill a wicked dose of poison.” She smirked as Alistair shifted just the slightest bit, which was the reaction she’d been going for, but the smirk fell from her lips when Jory muttered something that was most likely unfavorable and began to very loudly repack his equipment.

Daveth, on the other hand, had once again slunk closer without anyone noticing, and leaned against the fallen tree to watch Solona work. “A pretty mage who brews venom? I think I might be falling in love with you.” As Solona rolled her eyes at him, they fell on a particular flower she didn’t recognize, and she leaned just in front of Daveth’s leg to get a closer look, fingering soft, white petals splashed with blood-red pollen. She heard Daveth swear as he laughed, and she looked up at him curiously. “I’ve had my eyes open all morning for that flower and you found it first,” he said, his smile lacking any real ire.

Solona’s brow quirked and she refrained from pointing out just why he might have been too distracted to notice a fairly unique blossom, and instead asked, “Why would you be looking for this?”

Daveth shrugged. “Kennel Master’s got a sick hound and he’s offerin’ up a reward for anyone who brings him a white flower with a red center.” He dropped down so he was level with Solona, who was still bent over the foreign plant. “How ‘bout you and me split the reward, seeing as how you found it but I told you what to do with it?”

Solona’s other eyebrow raised to match the first. “My, how very reasonable of you,” she deadpanned. After a moment, she smirked, “Sixty-forty.” Daveth’s grin only widened, and he offered his hand; instead of shaking it, Solona held out her vials full of herbs. “Hold these for a moment,” she ordered, adding the flower in question to the last empty glass tube before she filled each nearly to the brim with a clear alcohol. “Drink any of this and I’ll make sure to dose you with one of _these_ ,” Solona threatened at Daveth’s pointed look at the half-full bottle of liquor.

“How long will it take before you can make use of those?” Alistair asked, peering over her shoulders to watch her work; his gaze darted around them periodically, surveying the area for threats and reminding Solona that they were currently trying to deliberately provoke darkspawn.

She cleared her throat and began sealing the vials with small corks. “Not long; toxins are generally easier to extract and prepare than restoratives.” After a moment, she observed, “‘S probably why I never managed a decent poultice—not enough patience.” She placed most of the herbs she’d collected, including the strange flower, in her satchel, but she wrapped three in cloth and handed one to Daveth. “If you wait a little while, you’ll be able to dip the tips of a few of your arrows into this.” She rolled her eyes again at yet another of Daveth’s grins. “I like the idea of having the edge on _darkspawn_ , you idiot.” To illustrate her point, she offered a vial to Alistair as well as to Jory, who pretended not to notice the gesture.

Alistair eyed his bottle of poison dubiously, holding it between his thumb and index finger. “It won’t do any damage to a sword, will it?”

Solona shook her head. “The alcohol makes it more or less effervescent, so it’ll dry quickly, and the poison itself affects _flesh_ ; the only thing you have to worry about is it wearing off. Or catching on fire,” she added after a moment. Another mutter from Jory seemed to prompt the end of their respite, and Alistair and Daveth both tucked away their deathroot extracts.

“What was that?” Daveth called out loudly in Jory’s direction. “I couldn’t quite catch that—your _silence_ was deafening.” He drew a snort from Solona, and she noted that Alistair seemed on the verge of doing so as well as he began to pick his way through uninviting sludge. Solona rose to her feet, securing her satchel on her shoulder and picking up her staff, and she considered Jory for a moment; while she was finding it increasingly difficult to put up with his blatant intolerance, she really did like the idea of having some sort of leverage against the darkspawn and she tried one more time, albeit half-heartedly, to give the remaining bottle of toxin to him.

He shrugged on his pack with unnecessary fervor and kept his eyes fixed on Alistair as he plowed on past her, but this time Daveth remained nearby; while he didn’t try to help her along the slippery mud, probably guessing correctly that she would elbow him in the ribs, he spent the time telling her about how he grew up in a village close by. Solona began to fall into a more or less companionable silence with him, relieved that his chatter drowned out Jory’s passive-aggressive whining, and she perceived that Daveth was just as relieved to be able to talk. She felt a little sorry for Alistair, whose commands were becoming increasingly brusque as she was sure Jory continued to ask him about the suitability of the newest recruit, but she halted abruptly when Alistair did the same, his frame still and his hand ready at the hilt of his sword—had he heard something? Solona listened intently, her heart beginning to drum in her ears.

Daveth caught on to their tense silence almost immediately and grabbed his bow, selecting an arrow from the quiver strapped to his back and holding it loosely between his fingers, ready to take aim. Jory went on for one more agonizingly loud, squelching pace before he realized no one was moving with him and looked back; he had just enough time for his confused brows to raise in apprehension before a low, inhuman laugh sounded from a small incline not too far from where they were standing, and an arrow pierced deep into the soft earth just to the left of Jory’s boot.

The darkspawn seemed to come out of the ground around them, guttural laughter sounding from grizzled throats, their bodies grotesque and carrying the stench of rotting flesh. They bore down on them before Solona had time to react; she gasped, the sound caught somewhere between a gag and a scream, and froze the nearest monster before she even registered raising her hand, but another one was already upon her, taller and more brutish than the first as it raised a misshapen sword—and was brought down by one of Daveth’s arrows through its neck. Solona gasped again and backed away from the blood that spurted from the wound, raising her cloak to shield her face, but she forced her eyes to remain open and thrust out her staff with her free hand, setting a group of darkspawn alight as they surrounded Alistair; this gave him a temporary reprieve from his attackers, but it also singed his shield arm, heating the metal protecting his elbow.

Solona swore, unaccustomed to fighting in such close quarters let alone with allies to worry about, and she noted with growing panic that more darkspawn were amassed on the hill, some rushing to replace the enemies they’d already felled—they would be on Alistair and Jory in a matter of moments, and Jory’s eyes were wild as he held his sword at the ready, seeking an opening. Solona cursed again and lashed out quickly, slowing one of the darkspawn with ice and using the temporary confusion as the rest scattered to turn it into a walking bomb. She yelled for Alistair to stay back when he made as if to charge into the fray; he seemed to take notice of the darkspawn who had hung back, clutching its throat and choking as it hunched over.

Alistair shoved Jory aside just as their foes went up and out in an explosion of gore, even worse than the dried entrails of the sentinels had been, and Solona whirled around and held up her cloak to shield both herself and Daveth from the spatter of hot blood. The moment she could no longer feel ichor thumping against her covered back, Solona ripped off her cloak and let it drop to the ground, shaking herself and putting as much distance between her and the ruined cloth as she could manage while still remaining close to the other men. She refused to turn and look at the others as she waited for her breathing to even out, unwilling to see that same horrified disbelief she’d experienced in the Circle Tower on the face of someone like Jory, who would want even less to do with her now.

Sure enough, Jory’s shallow breaths only became more ragged while Daveth remained utterly silent; before either could say anything, Alistair spoke up, rather cheerfully for someone who had just been liberally coated in darkspawn guts, “Good news is you won your first encounter with the darkspawn.” She heard his boots squishing through muck and shallow water as he surveyed the damage Solona had done to the monsters. “Bad news is I don’t think we can use much of this blood.”

Solona’s eyes closed in defeat as she sighed, slumping against her staff; she’d forgotten they’d needed to collect their blood, and now they would have to continue to actively seek out more darkspawn as they looked for Duncan’s scrolls—between those she’d charred, frozen, or infected, there wasn’t much left to work with. She swallowed and was just about to apologize when Jory voiced her own thoughts, and she could feel his gaze boring holes into the back of her skull. “You mean we’ll have to track down more of those _things_?”

“Chances are we were already going to run into more of them anyway,” Alistair answered, his tone short and business-like again as his footfalls drew closer to Solona’s now-rigid back. “I don’t think anyone has ever been prepared for the first time they see a darkspawn,” he told all three of them, but Solona figured he was probably looking at her. “I know I don’t look forward to encountering them.” After another moment of silence, he moved away from her, heading back in the direction they’d been going. “I _definitely_ don’t want to run into them in the dark, however, so let’s get a move on, shall we?”

A thought occurred to Solona as he continued to walk away, and she turned slowly, refusing to pay attention to Jory and Daveth’s reactions until the initial shock of the ambush wore off. “Wait… you’re covered in their blood,” she pointed out faintly, looking over the black ooze caked in Alistair’s hair.

“There’s a cleaner looking pond on the other side of this hill than _that_ mess,” Alistair explained, continuing to tromp over the knoll. Solona watched him, leaving her remaining concern unvoiced, but she wondered if Alistair was deliberately avoiding her gaze as he sluiced the gore off of his skin.  
___

Solona trudged through one of the longest days of her life, lamenting the loss of her cloak as she stepped as gingerly as possible over ground that grew more and more stable the further they pressed into the Wilds. By the time the sun began to descend, the trees were growing taller and closer together, the undergrowth surrounding their roots and the emergence of marsh grasses making the earth solid, if still a little spongy and damp under their feet. Jory’s mutterings had raised in volume, now punctuated by aggravated sighs as he continued to remain as close to Alistair as possible; Solona would have liked to be closer as well, but she kept her distance from Jory, already irritated with herself for her earlier mistake and becoming increasingly frustrated as he only served to salt the wound.

Daveth had stopped chattering away, but whether it was out of fear of the darkspawn or general exhaustion, Solona wasn’t sure. While he had initially kept a little space between them after the ambush, he’d gradually moved closer as they traveled, getting over the shock Solona herself had felt after the violence of her spell and throwing a derisive comment in Jory’s direction every now and then. In any case, his presence helped ease the criticizing voice in Solona’s head that was calling her an idiot with every weary step she took.

Perhaps because Jory and Daveth were so caught up in how miserable they were, it was Alistair and Solona who first noticed the campfire up ahead, as well as the surrounding dead men, all wearing the standard issue armor of the king’s army. She nearly tripped over her own aching legs as she began to run toward them, temporarily forgetting that the menace that had done this to them might still be lingering nearby. Alistair reached out and grabbed hold of her arm, stopping her, and gestured silently for the recruits to hang back as he approached the scattered corpses.

She heard Jory snort derisively at her near-mistake, standing further away than he had been just a moment ago, and she gave in to her annoyance and muttered, “Piss off, you ass,” before she edged in closer to Alistair, hoping to discover that some of the soldiers had survived. Instead, they saw only one man lying facedown close to the rickety bridge they were crossing, and the only indicator he was still alive were his hands as they weakly pulled himself forward. He noticed their approach and began to choke out, “Please, help me,” at the same time Daveth suddenly tried to push past them on the bridge, shouting, “Oi! Trap!”

His warning came too late, and the wounded soldier’s hand triggered a spring hidden by scattered brush; he screamed as giant metal teeth clamped over his arm, gnawing through his flesh to snap bone. They had no time to react as waiting darkspawn sprang up from amidst the carcasses, and as they charged the bridge Solona whirled around and saw more monsters closing in on the other side—they’d be boxed in within moments. “Sorry!” she yelled to the other recruits just before infecting the flanking darkspawn with more corrosive poison, electing to take out the lesser force before it could overwhelm them.

Daveth had managed to slink past to the end of the bridge, setting off two more traps with one of his arrows to make a clear path for Alistair and Jory before tossing the useless shaft aside and selecting another, aiming for one of the darkspawn archers standing away from the melee. Jory was swinging wildly at the pressing darkspawn, his blade arcing powerfully but dangerously close to Daveth; Solona sent a bolt of lightning sizzling past the knight’s head, taking out one of the monsters and alleviating the pressure on his flank.

She threw one hurried glance behind her to confirm that there were no more enemies rushing the bridge, then scanned the area ahead, unsure of just what help she could be with two of her allies in the thick of the battle. She froze one trying to close in on Alistair, who managed to pummel a particularly aggressive darkspawn with his shield, staggering him back into Jory’s massive claymore. Solona caught his eyes in his brief reprieve, jerking her head back to draw attention to the empty bridge behind her, and Alistair nodded and yelled for Daveth to fall back before thrusting his sword into the chest of a roaring darkspawn, kicking it roughly off his blade as it died.

Daveth skirted around Solona and they stood side-by-side on the bridge, taking out what enemies they could as Alistair and Jory set up a barrier of sorts with their own weapons, trying to hold the darkspawn off long enough to retreat to the other end of the bridge and create a chokepoint. It was just as Solona was beginning to think they would be able to fall back when she felt it: the aura of magic, accompanied by the scent of ozone and something else foreign and dark. Alistair noticed at the same time she did, and this time he shouted, “Emissary!” just before the crowd of darkspawn parted to reveal one wielding a staff, fire coalescing as its throaty chuckle carried disturbingly over the racket.

Solona’s eyes widened and she grabbed frantically at the leather of Daveth’s armor, ignoring his exclamation of surprise as she shoved him over the rope supports of the bridge into the murky water below, and hurling herself after him just as a powerful fireball hit right where they’d been standing. The force of its shockwave sent Alistair and Jory staggering forward into the enemy, and Solona pulled herself up onto the bank as quickly as she could, choking on pond scum as she instinctively ducked away from the heat of the flames burning the bridge; she felt Daveth join her, swearing inventively before piercing another darkspawn throat with an arrow. Solona deemed they had more than enough blood for the Joining now and responded to the emissary’s fire with some of her own, engulfing half of the remaining force with a cone of flame before hitting the opposing mage with a bolt of arcane power, stunning it long enough for Alistair to rush it with his shield.

Jory was now left with the bulk of the remaining darkspawn, and before Solona and Daveth could assist him in picking them off, he backed away, stumbling after Alistair and leaving a mage and an archer open for direct attack. Throwing sense to the wind, Solona had just enough time to shriek, “You fucking _prick_!” before a darkspawn’s crude shield slammed into her face, effectively stealing the wind from her as she fell roughly against the ground. Her jaws clacked together as the back of her head smashed into the grass, and she began to slide back down the bank, stunned by the pain and the force of the blow; she could vaguely hear Daveth shouting as she gagged on her own blood streaming from her nose and mouth.

Her attacker loomed over her, her vision blurred by tears, and she could just make out a sword glinting in the air above her, the darkspawn already gloating over its impending kill. Solona made one desperate lurch to the side, rolling as the rusted blade plunged into the earth right behind her, and its curved, serrated edge just managed to slice open her shoulder. She cried out, nearly rolling back into the blade in her blind attempt to shield her wounded arm, and looked up into the terrible, empty black eyes of a darkspawn as it roared down into her face.

Solona could make out Alistair yelling, his voice drawing closer, but the darkspawn was yanking its sword out of the ground and readying for another swing at her exposed neck. She felt around on the grass, afraid to take her eyes away from the monster bearing down on her, and found her fallen staff, gripping it tightly and swinging out with all of her might to catch the darkspawn in the knees. It stumbled to the side, and Solona used the opportunity to pull herself up into a sitting position with the aid of her staff, leaning against it and reaching out with her free hand to feel for the entropic energy in the darkspawn’s body—aging tissue and bone underneath grotesque skin.

She twisted her hand into a fist, draining stagnant life into herself to fuel new growth in her wounds, closing the gash in her shoulder and staunching the flow still pouring out of her nose and mouth. The spell severely weakened the darkspawn, and it fell to its knees on the grass as Alistair simultaneously drove his sword through its makeshift armor, careful to angle the blade so Solona wouldn’t be splattered by any stray blood. Her foe had been the last of the darkspawn, it seemed, as Alistair yanked his blade out of the corpse and shoved it down the bank into the water before kneeling at Solona’s side, looking her over as he helped her to her feet.

Daveth materialized to her left, helping to steady her as her wounds continued to heal, but at a slower rate; the energy stolen would ebb soon and Solona would be left with a need for a poultice and bandages. The absence of Jory at her side reminded her of why she’d nearly been killed in the first place, and Solona muscled her way past her two astonished aides to glare murderously at him. Jory was already backing away from her, tripping over the legs of a darkspawn corpse as he did so, his eyes wide as he stared at the tear in the sleeve of her robes. “A bl-blood mage!” he accused weakly.

Solona choked on her fury, every inch of her body buzzing with it as her hands clenched tightly enough for her fingernails to bite into her palms. After everything a maleficar had already done to the life she knew, as well as her brush with death, she had no tolerance for the ignorant claims of blood magic that were likely to get an innocent mage strung up in a village square. She closed the distance between them before anyone could react, sinking her fist into Ser Jory’s sputtering jaw.

Her knuckles connected with a satisfying crack against bone, and Jory reeled back, shocked. Before he could retaliate or Solona could pull her smarting fist back for another punch, Alistair’s hand was pushing her away, his other hand wielded in front of Jory to keep him at bay as his shock turned to anger. “Stand down!” Alistair barked, addressing both of them, his eyes fixed on Jory as one strong arm continued to block Solona. “Why bother fighting darkspawn if we’re just going to kill each other?”

His voice brought Solona back to the present and she backed away from his hand, clutching at her hair until pain registered along her scalp. She sucked in deep breaths through swollen lips, trying to quell the rage that was still boiling in her blood, once again seeing Jowan and the marionette templars as she closed her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said faintly, her speech garbled by her injured face; her apology was for Alistair, realizing too late that he was also being tested in his ability to _lead_ them, and so far none of them had made it an easy task.

All the same, Jory assumed she felt bad about hitting him and snapped, “Just keep your distance,” before Alistair fixed him with another warning glare. Short of retorting childishly that her apology wasn’t meant for him, there wasn’t much more that Solona wanted to say to the knight, so instead she surveyed the fallen darkspawn around her as well as the soldiers they’d all but stumbled into; she reluctantly glanced back at the bridge, looking for the man who’d been trying to crawl away, but her eyes confirmed her suspicions—he’d already died in the fray.

“Don’t think any of us are much looking forward to being anywhere near you, _Ser Knight_ ,” Daveth spat, yanking one of the arrows he deemed reusable out of a darkspawn carcass. He shrugged as Alistair directed a glower in his direction, wiping black ichor from the shaft of the arrow with a cloth before tucking it back into his quiver. He was soaking wet after his duck into the pond, as was Solona, but all three recruits had managed to avoid getting the poisonous blood on their skin.

“Right. Blood,” Solona said without any enthusiasm, satisfied in a morbid sort of way that at least one of their tasks was completed. Alistair nodded as he too remembered and handed her a thicker vial than was typical to hold the darkspawn blood, looking tired as he exhaled and ran his hand through his hair.

After giving one glass tube each to Daveth and Jory, who took theirs with even less fervor than Solona, Alistair looked west, taking stock of the setting sun. He heaved one more sigh, as if for good measure, before announcing, “We’ll have to make camp here for the night.” That froze everyone in their tracks—while Solona understood that trekking the rest of the way to the outpost and back out of the Wilds before nightfall was not a possibility, that didn’t stop the fear of being in the forest in the dark from sinking in her gut like a lead weight.

She heard Daveth swear under his breath just before Jory exclaimed, “Camp? Here?” He drew up as he gestured broadly over the surrounding bodies. “An entire patrol of seasoned men were killed by the darkspawn, and we’re supposed to stay here in this Maker-forsaken swamp?”

“Calm down, Ser Jory. We’ll be fine if we’re careful.” Alistair’s tone was instantly calm where it had just been harried, trying to appease the knight as well as Solona and Daveth, who were eyeing each other and the surrounding woods nervously as the sun painted everything in a rich, golden glow, and elongated the shadows around them. Alistair was watching Jory, who was still puffed up, his features hardening into anger again.

“Those soldiers were careful and they were _still_ overwhelmed! How many darkspawn can the four of us slay? A dozen? A hundred?” He waved at the corpses around the bridge again, trying to sway their Grey Warden leader with physical evidence. “There’s an entire _army_ in this forest!”

Alistair remained unfazed, sparing one glance at Solona and Daveth before focusing his attention on Jory, his voice softer and matter-of-fact as he moved a step closer. “There are darkspawn about, but we’re in no danger of walking into the bulk of the horde.”

Jory shook his head, eyes narrowed, and Solona wondered for the first time that day if he was merely disbelieving, or if he was also unaccustomed to following under another’s command. “How do you know?” he asked, his gaze darting from one tree to another as the shadows stretched even longer, the sun nearly kissing the ground in the distance. “I’m not a coward, but this is foolish and reckless. We should go back.”

Solona was on the verge of correcting his generous evaluation of his bravery, but Alistair spoke first, possibly intending to keep her from blurting out something that would send one recruit off into the Wilds to seek his doom. “Know this: all Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. Whatever their cunning, I guarantee they won’t take us by surprise. That’s why I’m here.”

Everyone seemed to hold their breath, waiting on Jory, until Daveth spoke up, nearly startling Solona after remaining quiet for so long. “You see, Ser Knight? We might die, but we’ll be warned about it first.” He shouldered his bow again and began to pick his way through the dead to the waning campfire the scouts had left behind. “In for a silver, in for a crown, as my dear old mum used to say.” He clapped hard on Jory’s shoulder, serving to both draw him toward the camp as well as take some of the bluster out of his towering stance.

Jory glared at Daveth’s back as he continued to set his things down near the fire, working at drying himself and his equipment off as he began to stoke the flames. When his ire proved ineffectual against someone as unflappable as Daveth, he muttered and stomped after him, but not before throwing one last baleful look in Solona’s direction. Solona stayed where she was, watching the embers of the fire begin to glow brighter as Daveth added more kindling, and she finally registered how utterly exhausted and cold she was.

“Solona…” Alistair had somehow managed to move right next to her as she watched the other recruits bustle around the fire, and she nearly tipped back down the bank as she started. Alistair’s arm caught her as she staggered and he began to lead her toward the camp, supporting her weight when her legs wobbled like they were made of jelly. She made a noise in the back of her throat, digging her heels into the earth so Alistair would stop for a moment. “Solona, you need to dry off—you’re shivering.”

Solona’s grip on Alistair’s armored shoulder tightened, a silent request for him to halt. When she was sure she had his attention, she met his eyes, which reflected the campfire in the growing darkness. “I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice, apologizing for her temper, as well as her inexperience—half of what she did was fueled by adrenaline, and the other half was pure, dumb luck.

Alistair was silent for a moment, the look he gave her searching, and then he shrugged. “If you hadn’t hit him, I might have.” When Solona remained unmovable, he lowered his voice to something near a murmur, leaning closer so the other two men wouldn’t hear him. “I know enough about mages to recognize blood magic. And as I said, I probably would have hit him if you hadn’t.” He moved toward the camp again, and this time Solona stumbled along with him, thinking about how Alistair was very unlike other templars.

___

When the time came for first watch to be taken, Solona was deemed unfit, her mana nearly drained after their recent skirmish, and as Jory very obviously wanted to avoid being anywhere near her, it was decided he’d stand guard with Daveth. Neither recruit was pleased about being saddled with the other, but as there was no logical way to justify a mage and an archer taking second watch, they didn’t have much choice. Still, Jory voiced his complaints until Daveth decided reasoning with him was useless and simply took off to take watch on his own, prompting Jory to follow or be labeled a coward.

As the sound of their bickering faded, Solona heaved a full-bodied sigh, sinking back off the log she’d been sitting on and sprawling out on her back on the ground. Some of her energy had returned as the fire warmed her, and Daveth had managed to score a couple of marsh birds to eat, but she wouldn’t really recover until she slept. She stared up at the stars in a way she hadn’t been able to since she’d left the Circle, her view previously hampered by either a tent or her own heavy eyelids; it was almost impossible to conceive that she’d been under the same stars in the Tower, unable to truly see them for so long.

Her stargazing was suddenly interrupted by a cloak dropping over her face, and Solona pulled it away, frowning at it as she studied the thick material before looking up at Alistair, whose head was blocking her view of one of the constellations above. “Her Lady’s sword is piercing your skull,” she remarked, pointing up at the stars as she pushed herself back up onto the log. She watched as Alistair looked up and laughed, a short, low sound, and smiled tiredly. “Isn’t this yours?” she asked, holding up the cloak when his gaze dropped down to hers again.

Alistair shrugged. “I didn’t go swimming today.” Solona conceded with a shrug of her own, securing the cloak around her shoulders and nearly slumping into the heat Alistair’s body had provided. She noted his frame was even larger than Kester’s, the abundance of fabric heavy on her shoulders; he would have had to be strong, in order to stand in the heavy armor of a templar.

Thinking of his armor reminded her of her misstep earlier, during the first darkspawn ambush, and her eyes darted to his left elbow. “How’s your arm?” she asked, already rummaging through her pack for the few poultices she’d managed to make as she and Duncan had traveled.

“How’s yours?” Alistair asked wryly, but he began to loosen the straps of the guards around his elbow, wincing when Solona helped peel away the armor to reveal angry, blistered skin—the metal had served to shield it from the worst of Solona’s blast of flame even as it trapped the heat against it. She nodded, satisfied that at least the skin wasn’t broken, and handed him one of her poultices and a bandage to hold it in place. Alistair took them, but remained still, looking down at her, and after a moment, he persisted, “What about yours?”

Solona shrugged her shoulder out of Alistair’s cloak, prying the ripped sleeve of her robes apart to expose the flesh underneath; the blood had stopped, but the wound was swollen and red, and Solona winced and routed through her pack again for her bottle of alcohol. She rolled up her sleeve, nearly biting down on her freshly split lip as she braced herself for the burn and tipped the bottle over her shoulder. As she cleaned out the pus and Alistair worked on his own arm, she looked out after where Jory and Daveth had gone, wishing she’d thought to check them as well.

Alistair seemed to notice the direction of her gaze and said, “They’ve got supplies of their own. So do I, in fact.” He sat down on one side of the log Solona had been sprawled over, still holding the poultice to his arm, and he grimaced when Solona held the nearly empty bottle of alcohol out to him. “Don’t suppose I can drink this instead?” he asked, eyeing the clear liquid distastefully when Solona continued to merely watch him, joining him on the other side of the log. As he worked at wrapping the bandage around his arm, he paused and turned to look at her. “There’s no deathroot in this poultice, right?”

Solona chuckled, recalling her earlier collection of plants as she mirrored Alistair’s grin. “Right. I _can_ make poultices, I just don’t like to. And they won’t be as effective.” She frowned, pulling down her sleeve and tucking herself back into the warmth of her borrowed cloak. “Didn’t get much time to make all that many, either.”

Alistair remained silent, but she could feel his eyes on her profile, his stance more curious than judgmental; she considered what he might have already known about the Circle, being trained as a templar, then mentally shrugged, thinking at this point he’d probably offered up a little more about himself than the reverse. “I’d just passed my Harrowing when Duncan recruited me. Made the trip here kind of… woozy.” She turned to look at Alistair, whose eyebrows raised in understanding—had he witnessed a Harrowing then, or had it simply been an awaiting test for him?

Her brows drew together in a momentary frown, thoughts briefly resting on Cullen, before she met Alistair’s eyes, her expression serious. “Thank you, by the way.”

“For?” Alistair asked, confused.

“Well, keeping us alive today, for one,” Solona said, only half-joking—she really did want him to know that she appreciated his leadership through the Wilds. “But mostly for not letting Jory go on about how I’m a maleficar; I doubt many know the difference between entropic energy and blood magic.” She also doubted a lot of mages had seen it, and she wondered if Alistair simply understood enough about magic to recognize when the forbidden art wasn’t involved, or if he knew from personal experience.

“Being a templar gives me _some_ idea of how magic works,” Alistair explained, skirting awkwardly around Solona’s gratitude as he scratched at his jaw. Solona snorted, and he nodded, his face solemn in the firelight. “I know, a lot of them don’t seem to want to pay attention to what _isn’t_ blood magic, but I’m not exactly your run-of-the-mill templar.”

 _No kidding._ Solona snorted again, and both of them smirked, and Alistair’s expression was just the tiniest bit rueful. Solona licked at the cut on her lips, weighing the pros and cons of prying, then prompted, “You said yesterday that you didn’t want to be a templar?”

Alistair appeared momentarily caught off guard, but then he answered, turning to watch the dancing flames. “It just… wasn’t for me. I believe in the Maker well enough, but I never wanted to devote my _life_ to the Chantry.” There was more behind his explanation, adding a weight to his expression that Solona couldn’t quite decipher, but she didn’t pursue it—she had a feeling that most who joined the Wardens had pasts that weren’t entirely pleasant to discuss. Alistair was silent awhile longer before he said, “Duncan saw how unhappy I was there; he was the first person who cared what _I_ wanted.”

Solona mimicked Duncan’s hum again, nodding sagely and letting Alistair know that he didn’t have to go on if he didn’t want to. Alistair laughed, turning to look at her as he grinned. “You know, you’re actually pretty good at that.”

“It’s this useless talent I have,” Solona explained, stretching out her legs so her boots were closer to the fire. “Well, actually, I usually only do it when I’m trying to make someone angry and I’m pretty good at that, but you’re one of the few people this actually amuses.”

“ _One_ of the few?” Alistair’s eyebrow was raised, but his expression was companionable and Solona felt that he was offering her the same choice to not answer if she didn’t wish to.

She ran her tongue over her teeth, testing the wounds on her gums that the darkspawn had inflicted with its shield, and eventually said, “A friend of mine; he’s the only person I know who’s better than me at pissing people off.” She smiled wryly, almost wistfully, before shaking her head and expelling thoughts that would weigh her down on a night that was already sure to make her restless. “And also Duncan—did it right to his face back in the Tower. He claims it’s one of the reasons he recruited me.”

Alistair laughed, surprised, and Solona found the sound warm, helping to soothe any apprehension she’d been feeling about sitting in a clearing while darkspawn amassed deeper in the forest. “I believe it.” He stretched out his legs as well, still smiling, and he seemed to pick up quickly as uncertainty drew Solona’s gaze to the toes of her boots. “You think fast on your feet, too; Jory nearly gave up back there, and you managed to keep yourself and Daveth alive.”

She caught the amusement in his voice and knew he was recalling their dive into the pond; she finally allowed herself to laugh about it, thinking of Daveth’s wide eyes and swearing mouth as he’d gone under, imagining she must have made a spectacle as she toppled head over heels after him. Her laughter invited Alistair to join in, and soon they were snickering together, trying to keep quiet so as not to attract the attention of monsters or irritated recruits.

Thinking of the pond also reminded her of the emissary’s fireball, as well as Duncan mentioning only days before that the darkspawn had magic of their own. As their laughter faded, she remarked, “That darkspawn’s magic felt different. That… emissary?” She looked back to Alistair for clarification, and he nodded slowly, serious again.

“A hurlock. The shorter ones were genlocks, and both kinds have mages.” Alistair’s descriptors, while helpful, didn’t quite answer the question Solona had asked. When she continued to watch him, he went on, “They’ve been known to use a power _similar_ to blood magic.” His gaze had shifted to his own boots as Solona’s had fixed on his profile, and while she still felt that there was more to his answer, she didn’t want to force the issue.

Instead, she thought over the occasional text she’d read in the Tower, comparing the odd aura she’d felt around the emissary to the Chantry’s cautionary tale of mages and darkspawn. “Alistair…” She hesitated, doubting that a man new to the Grey Wardens would know the answer more than any save for those who had founded the order. “Were the first darkspawn really mages?” Their gazes traded places again, hers returning to the campfire as Alistair’s studied her profile—it would have been comical to her, if she hadn’t been so intent on finding out at least what _he_ thought of the popular opinion.

“I don’t know.” Alistair’s voice was soft, but truthful. “None of us do, really.” He didn’t say outright what he thought of the Circles, of mages being rounded up and locked away by the Chantry for deeds done hundreds of years ago, but Solona hadn’t directly asked the question either; instead, he continued to watch her until she finally met his eyes again. “They come up from the ground, and that’s as far as we’ve gotten.”

Solona gave him the hint of a smile, thanking him for his honesty, at least, and then her eyes swept over the area around them, his answer reminding her of how the darkspawn had managed to spring up out of seemingly nowhere. “How many are out there, anyway?” Her voice was faint, and she almost didn’t want to hear the answer.

“Thousands,” Alistair sighed after a moment. “Tens of thousands. They’ve had centuries to build up their numbers, and the archdemon is here somewhere, leading them.”

Solona rested her elbows on her knees as she studied him in the glow of the fire—his hair seemed more a shade of red gold in its light, and his features even more prominent, clean-cut. “You know this because… all Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn?” Alistair remained silent about just how this was possible, not that she expected anything different. Instead, she yet again filed away her suspicions in favor of not alienating herself from the group and asked, “So, will we be spending another night camping out in this rustic charm or are we close to the outpost?”

“We’re actually not too far away, but we wouldn’t have reached it before dark,” Alistair answered, taking a second to frown up at the sky. “We should make it back to Ostagar by evening tomorrow.” He refrained from saying anything like “if all goes well,” and Solona was thankful, prepared to shoot lightning at anything or anyone who threatened to jinx their chances of making it out of the Wilds; her dislike of Jory aside, she was unwilling to spend more time in the infested swamp than absolutely necessary. She also silently agreed that it was just the slightest bit more reassuring being in the company of a Grey Warden, but she wasn’t about to admit to any of it out loud.

“Why are we retrieving these scrolls, exactly?” Solona asked, wondering if she was allowed to know what they entailed.

Alistair cleared his throat, sitting up straighter as he was able to address a topic that didn’t skirt uncomfortably around things he wasn’t permitted to discuss. “They’re treaties, promises of support during Blights made by the elves, dwarves, and mages. Duncan figures, with so much of Ferelden thinking the problem will go away if they forget it’s there, it’ll be a good idea to have the scrolls around to remind them.”

Solona’s eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Mages? They were actually permitted to promise their support?”

Alistair snorted, a humorless sort of laugh. “The Grey Wardens have a single-minded objective to end Blights by whatever means necessary; this means they can enlist the help of mages without worrying about what the Chantry has to say about it. Ideally, anyway,” he added, and Solona guessed he was thinking of how they’d met.

She also thought of how difficult it seemed for even people in the encampment to accept how dangerous the darkspawn were, how they were all still squabbling amongst each other, and wondered how much more dire things had to become. “Why are people so skeptical about the Blight?”

Alistair sighed, sprawling out over the log again as if just thinking about the tension awaiting them back at Ostagar was daunting enough. “Every time a Blight ends, the darkspawn go back underground. It’s been so long since the last one, and so many were killed, that everyone just assumed they were gone for good.” After a moment, he observed, “Neither the king nor the teyrn believe this is a true Blight; they think it’s all just some unusually large darkspawn raid.”

Solona groaned and leaned forward, resting her head on her knees as her hands reached out to clasp the tips of her boots, stretching out limbs that had begun to tense and bunch after days of strain. “The king wishes for a ballad,” she mumbled into her robes, half-hoping Alistair wouldn’t hear her in case he liked Cailan or at least found it inappropriate to call him a moron; the teyrn she wasn’t sure about, an enigmatic figure in his tent, probably pacing and scowling as he tried to prepare for another battle with the darkspawn. She knew Teyrn Loghain was a war hero, the commoner who had helped free Ferelden from the Orlesian Occupation, but that was about it; she wasn’t even sure of what he looked like— _better try not to call anyone else a prick until I know who they are_.

Alistair did his best to imitate Duncan’s hum, and Solona sat up a little, her eyebrows raised as she smirked in approval. “Cailan wants his place in history,” he agreed, and that weight slipped behind his eyes again, making his gaze seem faraway as it also tilted his lips into the slightest frown. “It’s Teyrn Loghain who’s planning the strategy. Er… that’s _my_ opinion, anyway,” he added wryly, meeting Solona’s eyes as they both confided their dislike of the way the king had handled things thus far, however quietly.

They sat in silence for awhile longer, listening to the crackling flames in front of them, and eventually Solona yawned, her body demanding sleep. Alistair rose to his feet, stretching his arms before adding more of the logs they’d collected to the fire, then turned to advise, “Best get some sleep before it’s our turn to keep watch.” He sighed in resignation at the idea of their impending shift, then dropped down onto the ground just to the right of the log, pillowing his head in the crook of his elbow.

Solona merely sank backward off of the log again, her legs bent up over the dead wood as her hands clasped behind her head. She heard Alistair snort again and turned to stick her tongue out at him, knowing there was no truly graceful way to sleep in a swamp. As she began to drift off, thoughts on the day and the future flitted lazily around in her head, jumping from the question mark that was the darkspawn to the bigger question mark that was the Grey Wardens, and then to the Joining, which sort of alternated between another glaring question mark and an exclamation point.

“What are the chances of you talking about the Joining in your sleep?” she asked around another yawn, nearly asleep herself.

Alistair inhaled deeply, then drawled, “Bow to your partner, one step, two step, quick step, turn…”


	7. the larger scheme of things

The outpost had been impressive once: a Warden compound at the edge of the known world, silently keeping watch in the Wilds as time eroded its grand floors and brought down its stately ceiling, as people forgot about its existence along with why it was ever built in the first place. What was left of it still stood proudly, pillars erect under moss and vine, waiting for Wardens to return and reclaim what was held within. It could be seen from a distance, standing on the crest of a hill and watching their approach as Alistair led them past ancient statues of faith that had been defiled by darkspawn; they’d paid a great deal of attention to the grounds of the outpost, as if they knew what it had once been.

They climbed the hill with weapons at the ready in case anymore monsters were lying in wait, but they reached the ruin without incident, and all evidence of the darkspawns’ invasion stopped abruptly at its walls. Alistair frowned and muttered something inaudible as he sheathed his sword, his eyes searching the hillside before looking further into the distance. “They’ve moved further into the forest,” he concluded, sighing and turning back to the ruin as he ran his hand through his hair. “Whatever they were looking for, they’ve found it.”

“The scrolls?” Solona asked, already doubting the possibility; if the darkspawns’ perverse sense of humor hadn’t spread past the threshold of the outpost, it was unlikely they’d entered themselves. She reached out with tendrils of mana, silently feeling for old spells of protection around the ruin, even as Alistair passed through where doors had once stood, his lips turning down again as the magic of ancient wards prickled along the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Solona maneuvered around Alistair, staying close to the outpost’s perimeter as she brushed against the columns of stone with her magic as well as her fingers, feeling intricate webs of power buzzing from floor to ceiling.

Her gaze met Alistair’s as Daveth slunk into the crumbling structure, followed more slowly by Jory, and she shrugged; short of tearing down the pillars, there wasn’t much to be done about the spells guarding them, and so far they had only served to give them some hope of actually finding what they were looking for. Just as Solona’s mana began to recede, giving up on her investigation, she felt a different kind of magic, separate from the wards and right out of her reach. It was her turn to frown, drawing Alistair’s attention as she extended more of her mana, trying to get a better feel for the foreign energy before she voiced her concerns aloud: it was elusive, avoiding her as if it were smoke.

She noticed Alistair watching her, brows drawn together and hand hovering over the hilt of his sword, but she shook her head minimally before he could move closer or ask what was wrong; whatever the presence was, it was cognizant, deliberately avoiding identification, and Solona didn’t want to act blindly. She leaned into her staff as casually as possible, fingers twitching against the polished wood even so, and peered up a nearby incline into a part of the outpost that had long since collapsed. She searched for some sign of the magic’s source, but she couldn’t see any mage hiding in the brush amidst the fallen rock.

Jory and Daveth had noticed that Alistair and Solona weren’t moving, and they stood motionless as well, nearly back-to-back as they poised for fight or flight. Alistair followed the direction of Solona’s gaze with his own, eyes narrowing in suspicion as he too searched for traces of magic, but like her, he could see nothing. Solona watched a moment longer, frustrated that she couldn’t pinpoint the strange aura flitting beyond her own awareness like a name on the tip of her tongue, then deemed it a waste of time and drew her mana back into her inner well.

She shrugged at Alistair, clutching at hair that was now horribly matted after her time in the swamp. Alistair nodded, slowly, and turned reluctantly from their view of the upper level of the outpost, but Solona’s nerves continued to hum with tension as she fixed her attention to the rubble that littered the floor along the perimeter, and Alistair’s stance remained equally tense as he dug around another part of the ruin. Daveth and Jory watched them both work for awhile before the slighter man began to shift through the debris, his search more methodical compared to the effort Jory was putting into Alistair’s side of the outpost, fueled by his eagerness to get out of the Wilds.

Solona knelt in front of a pile she surmised was big enough to conceal a chest, silently willing Jory to _keep it down_ as he dropped sizeable chunks of rock onto the stone floor with a racket that drowned out any noise an intruder might have made. She threw a frown at the knight’s back before she began to peel away smaller bits of mossy stone, her nose scrunching in distaste as insects crawled away from the hands disturbing their home. After she’d worked away quite a bit of rubble, she noticed that her fingers were touching slimy bits of timber as well, and with Daveth’s help she managed to heave away enough rock to expose a chest underneath, smashed by a fallen column. “Here,” she called to the others, reaching in through the gap she’d created to see if the lid of the chest could be lifted without moving anymore debris.

Daveth was already squinting at the rusted lock, evaluating its durability as his fingers toyed with the pouch of lock picks on his belt. “I doubt this thing’d hold up to a stiff breeze,” he concluded after a minute, shrugging and rising to his feet. “Only thing to do is get this mess out of the way.” He gestured to the heap of broken stone and timber lining the wall. “You think the old bugger’s scrolls are still any good?”

Solona reached out with her magic again, feeling for the seal Duncan had mentioned, and while she did trace over more wards, they were severely weakened, possibly by the fallen pillar. “They may have been destroyed by mold,” she said, and silently added _or someone else_ as her eyes once again met Alistair’s, who’d joined them on their side of the ruin; her gaze darted furtively to the higher part of the outpost, confirming that she could still feel the presence lurking nearby. Alistair gave her a brief nod, then glanced to his right as well to signal her to keep watch while the other three moved the bulk of the column off of the chest.

She backed away from the others as they worked, keeping her gaze on them as her mana all but radiated from her skin, and she risked making even Daveth and Jory more nervous than they already were. The smoke-like essence remained on the edge of her grasp, and while Solona couldn’t quite find its source, she was able to determine that it was an alternative kind of magic, one she had not learned in the Circle—an apostate was hidden somewhere in the brush, watching them. She kept her thoughts to herself, reluctant to alarm a group of already-twitchy men while they were stuck in such cramped quarters, and she again allowed her mana to dim so it emanated from her core less powerfully.

Alistair, Jory, and Daveth had managed to heft the brunt of the column away from the chest, and they struggled to hold it long enough for Solona to duck in and push up the splintered lid. She grimaced as more bugs and slugs were exposed, slithering and crawling over rotted wood to escape the rays of sun beaming down into the outpost, and while Solona could make out a rusted battle axe and the remains of what she guessed had once been a bow, there was nothing else in the chest. “There’s nothing in here,” Solona announced, swearing as she stood up and backed away quickly so the other three could drop the pillar back down on the ground with a resounding crack.

They all stood still as the din of splitting rock and smashing wood subsided, staring at the evidence of their failed quest, and Solona wondered if their chances of finding _another_ magically sealed chest were any good. Then she finally heard something from the nearby incline: a footfall, the quiet scuff of a boot against stone. She tensed, all of her senses practically vibrating as she tried not to whirl around and put a face to the magic that had been evading her; instead, she bent forward slowly, recovering the staff she’d dropped in her rush to open the chest, and tried to catch Alistair’s eyes in warning.

“Well, well. What have we here?” A woman’s voice sounded from behind her, rich and smooth, and teasing. 

_Too late_. Solona winced as she turned, still crouched close to the ground as she studied the woman over her shoulder, gripping her staff until her knuckles turned white. “Are you a vulture, I wonder?” the woman continued, her golden eyes seeming almost predatory in their amusement as she descended the stone ramp toward them, her pale hand resting lightly on the guardrail. “A scavenger poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn-filled Wilds of mine in search of easy prey?”

The others had drawn their weapons as well, and Alistair had moved forward until he was just a half a pace in front of Solona, while Jory had his broadsword wielded defensively and the string of Daveth’s bow all but sang under his trembling fingers. Solona straightened as the woman drew closer, maintaining eye contact as her shoulders strained with the effort to appear neutral until she had a better idea of the stranger’s intentions. She could clearly feel the other woman’s magic now, however foreign it remained, and she knew she was being mocked as smoke-like mana all but enveloped her for a moment before dimming. Alistair very nearly growled in warning.

The corner of the stranger’s lips quirked in the hint of a smirk as her eyes narrowed, sweeping over all of them. “What say you?” she pressed, her tone harsher as she sought a response. “Scavenger or intruder?” Her arms folded over breasts that were scantily but strategically clad in scraps of leather, and her black hair was pulled back precisely, leaving her angular features exposed while she kept her thoughts carefully guarded; everything about her seemed deliberate, and Solona was reminded of a bird of prey—although that could have been because of the woman’s fondness for vulture metaphors.

Alistair’s gauntlet creaked as his grip tightened on his sword, his entire frame poised for an attack, and Daveth had crouched lower to the ground, his mouth shaping soundless words; Solona couldn’t see Jory from her periphery, but she could hear him shifting behind her, and she considered his giant sword angled somewhere close to her head with a nervous gulp. Deciding she would rather not have her head wind up separated from her shoulders in an instance of panicked collateral damage, Solona cleared her throat and moved a step to the right so she was further from Jory’s weapon. “Neither,” she answered for them. “This tower belonged to the Grey Wardens.” She tilted her head toward the only official Warden present as if to justify their presence in the ruin, even if said Warden was probably attempting to will her to shut up.

“‘Tis a tower no longer.” The apostate’s voice was lilting as she all but toyed with them. She brushed by the group, moving purposefully toward the hill outside the ruin, and Alistair was careful to face her, his other hand inching over the supports of his shield while Jory repositioned his sword and Daveth let out a strangled yelp. “I have watched your progress for some time,” the stranger mentioned, pointedly casual as she walked, her eyes darting to Solona’s. “‘Where do they go?’ I wondered. ‘ _Why_ are they here?’ And now you disturb ashes none have touched for _so_ long. Why is that?”

She had placed herself at a higher vantage again, her gaze searching, and Solona could feel her mana wisp over them again; while magic would certainly provide the woman a chance for success if the particularly anxious men chose to attack, Solona was sure she was relying on common superstition to keep them at bay—as far as Daveth and Jory were concerned, her strategy seemed to be working. Alistair, however, was more knowledgeable in the use of magic and maneuvered again so he was level with Solona, his eyes still narrowed on the stranger. “Don’t answer her,” he cautioned, his voice soft and wary as he shot furtive glances around the area. “She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby.”

The apostate seemed to peer down her fine nose in disdain, her eyes finally shifting from Solona to fix on Alistair as she scoffed. “You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you?” Her arms raised above her head, hands spread in an imitation of pouncing tribesmen.

“Yes,” Alistair retorted, rotating his sword arm so he was better positioned for an ambush. “Swooping is _bad_.” Between the seriousness of his thinly veiled threat and the sophisticated sneer of the apostate, Solona wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or sigh. The witch had waited until _after_ they’d opened the chest to draw their attention, which meant there was a good chance she knew what they were searching for; Solona doubted she would be open to sharing any information on the scrolls if Alistair continued to drive her away with suspicion and his imposing… man arms.

Before she could try to interject, however, Daveth had finally had enough, and he hissed from behind them, “She’s a Witch of the Wilds, she is! She’ll turn us all into toads!” Solona risked a half-turn to look him over as Alistair continued to glare at the woman on the hill, and she nearly rolled her eyes in exasperation: Daveth was one blink away from firing an arrow at the stranger’s throat, and she tried to draw his gaze to hers to reassure him. Daveth searched her expression frantically, as if silently asking if such a spell existed, and Solona was tempted to simply shrug before she gave him the tiniest shake of her head.

However, when the woman spoke again, she sounded amused, rather than offended. “Witch of the Wilds?” she repeated, one eyebrow arching gracefully as her arms crossed again. “Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own? You there.” Her eyes settled on Solona once more, apparently finished with her evaluation of the group. “Women do not frighten like little boys. Tell me your name and I shall tell you mine.”

Solona kept her gaze locked on the apostate’s, keenly aware that all of the men were now watching her, and she resisted the urge to shrug an apology to the stranger as she folded her own arms, bristling under the tension. Yes, the woman was a mage who had most likely never set foot in the Circle Tower, but just because she may have been taught a different approach to magic didn’t mean that she was about to become an abomination on the spot—in fact, she appeared too disciplined for such practices, as if the very idea of losing her control to a demon repulsed her. She offered the woman the shrug she’d been withholding, flashing a smile that was more a grimace as she noticed Alistair’s eyes searing into her profile; she perceived that, despite his templar training, his reluctance to talk to the apostate had more to do with her getting the jump on him—the mockery couldn’t have helped matters either.

She slowly let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I’m Solona. Lovely marsh you’ve got here.” Solona took stock of her own bedraggled hair and her robes, stiff and tinged a sickly green with dried pond scum, and her grin widened, albeit ruefully, as the woman answered with a smirk of her own, however guarded it remained.

“And you may call me Morrigan, if you wish.” Morrigan’s head tilted as she stepped closer. “Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?” Her eyes traveled slowly to the recently disturbed pile of debris before returning to Solona’s, confirming her notion that Morrigan had intentionally waited until they’d discovered the scrolls were missing.

“‘Here no longer?’” Solona’s eyes finally traveled skyward as she cringed at Alistair’s scathing distrust. “You _stole_ them, didn’t you? You’re some kind of sneaky… witch-thief!”

Solona stared at Alistair in disbelief, momentarily caught up in his flustered accusations, and wondered if she could get away with elbowing her superior in his armored ribs. Once again Morrigan was more inclined to toy with them. “How very eloquent,” she jeered, flashing Alistair one glare of warning even so. “Tell me, how does one steal from dead men?”

“Quite easily, it seems,” Alistair retorted dryly, but he finally sheathed his sword. “Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them.” Solona bit down on her tongue to resist throwing in a sarcastic, _or face the consequences_ , deducing that now was not the time for her particular brand of humor—while they must have made a somewhat hapless breed of enforcers at the moment, tensions were high enough that she risked drawing the ire of the men’s weapons or Morrigan’s magic.

Morrigan’s features appeared cool, withdrawn as she turned from Alistair, dismissing his presence. “I will not, for ‘twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish. I am not threatened.”

The silence all but clamored around Solona’s ears as the two remained frozen in some kind of stand-off, and she finally heaved a sigh and moved forward slightly so she wasn’t peering at Morrigan over Alistair’s shoulder. “So who removed them?” she asked, figuring that the witch wouldn’t have been so keenly interested in the scrolls if she hadn’t already known something about them. She risked bumping her elbow against Alistair’s, pleading with him to relent, and he seemed to at least acknowledge that they were running around in circles as he remained quiet.

“‘Twas my mother, in fact,” Morrigan answered, sparing Alistair one more smirk before returning her attention to Solona.

She offered nothing more, and Solona cleared her throat again, aware that everyone was watching her, waiting for her next words to determine exactly what was to be done about the scrolls. She was momentarily tempted to thump her staff against the ground to see how high she could make everyone jump before she prompted, “Could you take us to her?” She looked up at Morrigan as if they were the only two in the Wilds, even as the intensity of Alistair’s scrutiny made her cheeks flare up like they might catch fire.

Morrigan’s lips tilted in something more akin to a real smile as she regarded her from her perch on the hill. “Now that is a _sensible_ request. I like you,” she stated as if it were confirmation for herself as much as Solona.

Alistair’s hand fell on Solona’s elbow, drawing her closer to him more by the contact than by any actual tugging on his part, and he leaned in so he could speak to her alone. “I’d be careful. First it’s ‘I like you,’” he intoned, his voice raising in what he deemed an imitation of Morrigan’s, “but then _zap!_ Frog time.” Solona merely looked at him, brow raised as she rotated her staff, and Alistair winced, recalling that he’d assumed _she_ would turn him into a toad, even if he’d been joking at the time. It was his turn to clear his throat, and he straightened, shrugging as he went along with Solona’s decision, which she really, _really_ hoped wouldn’t lead them into a trap; whether or not Morrigan claimed to like her, her magic was most likely more advanced than hers and she’d already proved adept at eluding them—not to mention Solona could only hazard a guess as to how powerful her mother might be if she was also a mage.

Morrigan noted the aura of apprehension around all four of them, and her voice was soft as she spoke next. “The unknown is not inherently evil, nor is magic,” she remarked, her gaze drawing everyone’s eyes to Solona’s staff in a reminder of the mage in their own company. “I will show the way and you may choose to follow, if you wish.” With one final glance at Solona, who nodded, she turned and began to lead the way.

They all watched her for a few seconds, then Solona finally chanced looking at Alistair, whose heavy expression suggested he was running over every possible way their course of action could go wrong. His eyes fell on hers, and she gave him a crooked grin, shrugging as she pulled at the hair on the back of her head. “We already did the darkspawn fireball thing yesterday; anything less than this would be uneventful.”

“And we wouldn’t want that,” Alistair said wryly, pushing up his own hair at odd angles as he ran his hand over his head, sighing in resignation. Solona gave him a nod that was somewhere between thanks and apology, then followed after Morrigan, who was slinking through cattails and mud with practiced ease. She heard Daveth and Jory finally find their voices to begin bickering once more, and Alistair’s sharp “would you two _shut up_?” cut through the quiet of the surrounding marsh.

___

Morrigan and her mother lived deeper in the Wilds, hours away from the outpost in the thick of massive trees that grew so closely together that Solona had to tip her head back to make out the forest’s canopy. Sunlight just managed to filter through dark branches to illuminate a barely discernible path around a shallow pond, giving the impression of dusk, though it was only recently past morning. Morrigan led them toward a hut that seemed to just manage to hold itself together, and Solona’s eyes fell on the figure of a woman standing in the shadow of the doorway right before she was nearly overwhelmed by the tide of magic that washed over her; where Morrigan’s magic had reminded her of smoke, her mother’s felt like fire, burning as it raked over her own aura, evaluating intruders.

Solona reeled, gasping in shock and pain as she pressed her fingers to her temple, abandoning any notion she might have had to appear unshaken in favor of self-preservation. She pushed back with her weaker mana, feebly shielding herself from further invasion on behalf of Morrigan’s mother as she felt Alistair’s hands settle on her shoulders, supporting her just as much as she perceived he was himself. She was about to snap at the witch to back off, concerned about how her other companions were affected, when her magic suddenly withdrew, staggering Solona as much as it had when she walked smack into it.

“Greetings, Mother,” Morrigan was saying, approaching the woman still shrouded in the darkness of her home, and Solona vaguely registered that she may have been prompting her mother to relent. “I bring before you four Grey Wardens who—”

“I see them, girl.” Her voice was husky with age, and dry as she peered at them smugly from her doorstep. She finally stepped out into the faded light of the sun, revealing wispy, silvery hair, and a withered, ancient body contrasted by sharp eyes, golden like her daughter’s. They swept over her visitors in a similar fashion as well, and Solona bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from shaking in reaction to the old woman’s previous show of magic; from the way Alistair’s fingers dug into her shoulders, she assumed he felt the same—she couldn’t risk a glance at the others, wary of taking her eyes off of the witch.

She studied them shrewdly for what seemed like minutes before she hummed, her thin lips twisted in a smirk. “Much as I expected,” she said, and Solona uncomfortably registered that her gaze seemed to pay more attention to her and Alistair, even if only because they were standing closer to her.

Her words seemed to bring Alistair out of his momentary stupor, and his hands dropped from Solona’s shoulders, leaving her feeling off-balanced as he straightened. “Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?” he asked, his voice wry even as his fingers surreptitiously sought the comfort of his weapon’s hilt. Solona silently thanked him for easing her almost unbearable tension, although she simultaneously risked shooting him a quick glare to warn against provoking a superior mage out in the middle of nowhere.

Morrigan’s mother only chuckled, the sound hollow and rasping, though her gaze still fixed on him searchingly. “You are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one’s eyes tight or open one’s arms wide… either way, one’s a fool.” Her voice sharpened, fixing Alistair with the razor edge of her observation; Alistair frowned, insulted, but he otherwise kept any retort he might have had to himself—it was Solona’s turn to reassure Alistair, her knuckles brushing against his wrist ever so slightly.

Then Daveth began babbling from behind them, his voice shrill and frightened and sounding very much like a man who had been raised on tales of demon witches lurking in the swamp. “She’s a witch, I tell you! We shouldn’t be talking to her!”

Before Solona could attempt to stomp on his foot to shut him up, she heard Jory yank him back into line behind them, for once speaking common sense in the face of magic. “Quiet, Daveth! If she really is a witch, do you want to make her mad?” The part of Solona’s mind that never seemed to be able to shut up was at least satisfied that _Jory_ hadn’t mentioned frogs—why everyone seemed to think that the worst thing a mage could do was infest the world with amphibians, she didn’t know.

Morrigan’s mother laughed again, the sound reminding Solona of ashes as she turned her attention to the men standing behind her. “There’s a smart lad,” she said, her mouth still turned up as she considered Jory. “Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will,” she added, issuing an offhand sort of shrug before her gaze fell on Solona again.

Solona nearly cringed, cursing herself for continuing to maintain eye contact when she could have simply watched her bony chin instead. Morrigan’s mother moved closer, drawing in as if she were a hawk closing on a mouse, and to Solona’s considerable chagrin she felt the burn of magic bear down on her again, as if the elder mage was aware that she wasn’t likely to get a straight answer otherwise. She was unable to look away now, no matter how much she desired to, and she only just noticed Alistair trying to move in front of her, though he too was transfixed by the old woman’s magic. 

“And what of you?” Morrigan’s mother asked, her voice nearly a whisper as she stood only a step away. “Do you believe as these boys do?” Solona could feel the fire of her mana slipping into her awareness, lapping at her thoughts like flames as her will fought to drive her out. Her eyes widened as the apostate’s voice suddenly grated against her consciousness, words silently emanating from motionless lips as if Solona was thinking them herself: _Will you go by what your Circle has taught you, or will you dictate your own life?_

Solona’s voice was strangled as she choked on whatever quip she may have reflexively offered, her mana now feeling instinctively for any trace of blood magic and finding only that same alien energy Morrigan had exuded in the outpost; the apostate was not influencing her answer, but rather ensuring that she answered truthfully. Even as she struggled, she still admitted faintly, “I don’t know what to believe.”

The old woman let out a sigh of satisfaction, her magic slowly withdrawing and leaving Solona trembling, though she no longer bothered to hold back a glare, angry and frightened by her power. “That’s more like it,” Morrigan’s mother crowed, smirking humorlessly in the face of Solona’s honesty before her features became slightly less shrewd, more contemplative. “So much about you is uncertain, and yet _I_ believe, do I not?” she murmured, and she reached out, tracing the heart-shaped line of the younger mage’s jaw; Solona gritted her teeth and dug her fingers into her elbow, refusing to jerk away from the touch despite her repulsion.

Morrigan’s mother hummed again, nodding, and her hand fell away from Solona’s face, appearing to finally find whatever it was she’d been looking for. “Why, it seems I do.” She moved back a pace, still watching Solona as well as Alistair, who exhaled as he was also released from her scrutiny, his expression hardening just as much as Solona’s as he mentally shook himself free from her gripping spell.

It was Morrigan who shattered the silence, her tone soft but pointed as she spoke from close by, reminding Solona of her presence. “They did not come to hear your wild tales, Mother.”

“True,” her mother cackled as she turned, moving toward a chest situated outside the uneven door of the hut with a deliberate carelessness reminiscent of Morrigan’s. “They came for their treaties, yes?” She pulled out a bundle of scrolls that were yellowed with age, and Solona remembered why they’d come—not to mention that it had been _her idea_ to follow Morrigan there in the first place. As she turned back to face them, her eyes pinned on Alistair. “And before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these,” she claimed, dropping brittle parchment into Solona’s hands.

“You—” Alistair stopped abruptly, looking almost baffled as Solona immediately passed the treaties to him. “Oh,” he said simply, staring down at the completion of their second task, and Solona felt as if Duncan had spoken to them years ago rather than just the day before, weary and rattled by the otherworldliness of Morrigan’s mother. “You protected them?” Alistair prompted, glancing back up at both apostates.

“And why not?” The elder witch merely shrugged as her daughter’s features twitched with the hint of a sneer. She waved away the treaties, dismissing them, and said, “Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them that this Blight’s threat is greater than they realize.”

Solona swallowed, almost surprised to find she could speak again. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice husky after being almost locked away by magic.

Now the old woman waved away her visitors as well, as finished with their presence as her protection of the scrolls. “Either the threat is more, or they have realized less. Or perhaps the threat is nothing. Or perhaps they realize nothing. No matter. You have what you came for.”

“Thank you for returning them,” Solona said, relieved when she sounded more like herself, even if every nerve in her body itched to leave the witch and the entire swamp as soon as was humanly possible.

“Such manners,” Morrigan’s mother observed sardonically, her smirk back in place. “Always in the last place you look—like stockings.”

It was Morrigan who cut off her peal of laughter, her arms crossed as she stepped forward and addressed them directly for the first time since they’d left the ruin. “Time for you to go, then.” Her eyes sought Solona’s, and for a moment she thought she perceived the hint of an apology in her gaze, or perhaps even sympathy, but it was gone before she could give it any further thought.

“Do not be ridiculous, girl,” her mother said, turning her grin on her daughter as her eyebrow raised. “These are your guests.” There was a weight behind her words that Solona didn’t quite like the sound of, and her eyes swept over them with a shrewd look of her own, wondering if they had intentionally held onto the scrolls and waited for those who would seek to reclaim them—she mulled over how much attention Morrigan’s mother had paid to her and Alistair and felt as if they had been chosen in some way. She wiped away any trace of a frown before either woman could notice and straightened, resolving to bring up her suspicions with Alistair later, once they had a minute to talk alone.

“Oh.” Morrigan said as simply as Alistair had, though she heaved a sigh of resignation and gestured to the obscure path that had brought them to her hut. “Very well, I will show you the quickest way out of the wood.” She breezed by, and Jory and Daveth immediately followed, as eager to be out of the Wilds as Morrigan was to be rid of them, but Solona hazarded one more glance at her mother; the old woman was already slipping back into the shelter of her hut, the door swinging shut with a pronounced squeak.

She was spurred back into action by Alistair’s hand on her elbow again, and she met his gaze guiltily, upset with herself after leading them all into what could have possibly been their doom. Before she could say anything, Alistair quipped, “You were right: not in the least bit uneventful.” His voice was wry, but his features were soft, and Solona felt more reassured about meeting a crazy witch in the middle of a swamp. “The trip back to Ostagar will seem like a stroll through the royal gardens now.”


	8. this pain you gave to me

Solona’s initial relief to be done with the Wilds ebbed as the trees thinned out and she remembered why they’d ventured into them in the first place; their final test was still waiting at Ostagar, and the journey through the wetlands provided her with far too much time to contemplate what such a secretive ceremony entailed. Alistair set a brisk pace after Morrigan waved them on their way, his intent likely to reach the fortress before the recruits could worry themselves into a stupor as much as it was to be out of the marsh before nightfall. Between overactive imaginations and hazardous waterways, even Jory was silent; the racket of their sloshing footsteps fueled Solona’s anxiety until she was fit to sing one of the few bawdy tavern songs she knew at the top of her lungs, or turn tail and flee back into the woods.

The sun began to descend when Alistair finally led them through the outskirts of the Wilds, and they were in sight of Ostagar’s walls by dusk, the final orange rays of the sunset bleeding into a darkening sky as stars began to peek down at them one-by-one. When the soldiers stationed at the wall opened the way for them, calling out a greeting after Alistair identified himself, Solona dug her fingernails into her staff as she drove it into the ground, almost pulling herself through the gate with it. Her first step beyond the threshold seemed to wipe her mind clear of all thought, leaving her with numb limbs and a pounding heart.

Her eyes swept over the men and women milling about in the firelight as she sought Duncan. This time he already stood at the recruits’ camp, and as they drew near, he turned from the bonfire to watch their approach, the light of the flames reflected in his dark eyes. “So you return from the Wilds. Have you been successful?”

He addressed all three recruits, but his gaze seemed to fall on Solona as he awaited an answer, and she wondered if she could get away with saying she had to retrieve something she forgot back in the swamp. _Like what, your spine?_ She drew up straighter, even if she still used some of the support her staff provided, and offered a nod as confirmation, afraid that her voice would crack if she tried to talk. Duncan’s expression was grave as he returned the gesture. “Good. I’ve had the Circle mages preparing. With the blood you’ve retrieved, we can begin the Joining immediately.”

Solona frowned at the confirmation of magic, but Alistair spoke up from his place at Duncan’s side, attracting the group’s attention. “There was a woman at the outpost and her mother had the scrolls. They were both very… odd.” He appeared apologetic as he spared Solona a glance, but she only shrugged, silently adding that “odd” was a bit of an understatement; she hadn’t appreciated the old woman’s prying, but she doubted the templars would even be able to _find_ her in the swamp—if Alistair bothered to report her to the Chantry.

“Were they Wilder folk?” Duncan asked, brows furrowed as he stroked his beard in thought.

“I don’t think so. They might be apostates hiding from the Chantry.”

Duncan hummed, his hand dropping from his chin as he dismissed the witches in the swamp. “I know you were once a templar, Alistair, but Chantry business is not ours. We have the scrolls; let us focus on the Joining.”

“Just what are we jumping into?” Daveth asked, his voice low and uncharacteristically serious.

Duncan paused, considering the recruits, and Solona was reminded of Irving standing beside her in the Harrowing Chamber, the lines around his eyes accentuated by pale light through stained glass as he tried to explain to her why the Harrowing existed. “I will not lie; we Grey Wardens pay a heavy price to become what we are. Fate may decree that you pay your price now rather than later.” His eyes fixed on each of them in turn before he stressed, “After this point, there will be no turning back.”

Both of the other recruits shifted, looking at each other nervously, while Solona continued to watch Duncan, finding a somewhat twisted sense of comfort in comparing a shapeshifting pride demon with what was to come. But what resonated most powerfully with her was his warning—even if she had nothing to return to in the Circle, Duncan had given her something the Chantry and superior mages never had: a choice. It brought back the feeling in her legs, and more importantly, her tongue, though she still clutched her elbows to keep herself from shaking. “Let’s get it over with, then.” _It’ll be tea and cakes this time, I’m sure_.

She felt Daveth’s eyes on her before he drew up as well, nodding his own assent to the man who would be their commander, and seconds later Jory said, “I agree—let’s have it done.” His nerves added an edge to his tone; to Solona it seemed more that he didn’t want to be the only one admitting to his reservations, especially if it would mean being outdone by a mage, let alone a woman. She was too busy dealing with her own nerves to sneer at him in contempt.

“Then let us begin,” Duncan said, his deep voice serious and ceremonial. He nodded once more to Alistair, who promptly led them away from the bonfire and toward the incline that would take them to the old temple, where Solona had first met him. His demeanor seemed particularly heavy and guarded in a manner she thought was unnatural for his features, and warded off any further outbursts from the recruits.

They stepped into what had once been the fortress’ temple, their footfalls echoing softly on the surrounding walls, and Solona found her mind was oddly disconnected from her emotions, observing events around her as if they were happening to someone else. She leaned back against an ancient wall, noting how secluded this part of the camp was, set apart from the rest of the people below; whatever occurred here, they would not be interrupted by outsiders. A shiver ran along the length of her spine, and she crossed her arms tightly against her chest underneath Alistair’s cloak, turning her focus to the full moon rising above the trees.

Daveth occupied the space next to her, equally entranced by the moon’s ascent as he murmured, almost to himself, “I’ve got nothing left waiting for me.”

Solona only issued a soft murmur of acknowledgment, allowing Daveth the opportunity to continue if he wished, but the wounds of her own recent past were still too fresh for her to share, especially when they stood in the company of someone like Jory. It was enough for Daveth, however, who continued, “I cut Duncan’s purse—or tried to. The garrison caught me, and Duncan invoked the Rite of Conscription. Gave the garrison the finger as I walked away.” A humorless smirk graced his lips, and he met Solona’s gaze, reflecting her own resignation.

It was not an understanding shared by Jory, who had decided to sulk on the opposite side of the temple. “Well, some of us aren’t running from the law,” he mumbled, and Solona didn’t miss the speculative glance he shot in her direction as he crossed his arms, kicking at a nearby pebble. “And the more I hear about this _Joining_ , the less I like it.” Solona only stared at him in exasperation, wondering if all the knight would ever be good for was _complaining_.

“Are you blubbering _again_?” Daveth asked, his tone as incredulous as Solona felt.

Jory scowled, and this time his eyes darted uncertainly to a corner apart from the recruits, where Alistair slouched; he was shrouded by the shadows cast by the moon’s pale silver light, and his lack of expression only served to add to the lead weight that had returned to Solona’s stomach. Jory, however, was more concerned about being reprimanded for his doubts, and upon confirming that Alistair would remain withdrawn, he continued, “Why all these damned tests? Have I not earned my place?”

Solona contemplated quoting the last words of wisdom she’d received from Mouse, which were gradually becoming some kind of proverb in her head as it seemed one trial after another presented itself, but instead she merely shrugged and returned her gaze to the moon, doing her best to ignore Jory’s growing unease in favor of quelling her own. Daveth snorted from his place beside her, following the others’ example as he crossed his own arms. “Maybe they’re just trying to annoy you,” he muttered, feigning a yawn when Jory glared at him.

The knight’s eyes darted back and forth between Solona and Daveth before he began to pace his side of the temple, resembling an agitated, caged bear. “I only know that I have a wife in Highever with a child on the way. If they had warned me…” He stopped pacing, his shoulders slumping as he sighed and shook his head. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

“Would you have come if they’d warned you?” Daveth asked matter-of-factly. Jory was quiet as he avoided the shrewd gazes of both recruits, earning him another shrug from Daveth. “Maybe that’s why they don’t. The Grey Wardens do what they must, right?” Solona peered sidelong at Alistair’s silhouette, noticing that he had begun to watch them from the shadows as they talked, and she considered the severity behind his earlier explanation of “whatever it takes.”

“Including _sacrificing_ us?”

“I’d sacrifice a lot more if it meant stopping the Blight,” Daveth stated plainly, drawing Solona’s eyes to his profile, just as gritty and haggard as her own must have appeared. Despite how she’d begun to view him as more of a friend, she still hadn’t expected such bravery from him while her own acceptance was numb, surreal. “You saw those monsters, ser knight,” he went on, no trace of mockery in Jory’s title this time. “Wouldn’t you do all you could to protect your pretty wife from them? Maybe you’ll die. Maybe we’ll _all_ die. If no one stops the Blight, we’ll die for sure.”

Solona watched Jory as he floundered, caught between his aversion to the darkspawn and his reputation as a knight; in the end, he swallowed, then said weakly, “I… I’ve simply never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade.” His fingers flexed as if in demonstration, itching to grasp his sword.

The sound of Duncan’s footsteps at the temple’s entrance ended any further conversation, and the moon shone on the silverite of his armor as he approached, casting his face in sharp relief. He held a chalice in his hands, gleaming as brightly as his armor, and Solona watched it through narrowed eyes—whatever the Joining was, Duncan wouldn’t have brought a cup to the ceremony if not to use it. “At last, we come to the Joining,” Duncan intoned, striding across the temple past Alistair and the recruits to stand at the head of the semi-circle they’d formed.

As he walked by Solona, her vision blurred and she heard familiar whispers in the back of her mind, as foreboding as they were alluring: the Circle mages had added lyrium to the potion in the cup. She closed her eyes, trying to shield against the nausea brought by her disorientation, and the night air seemed to roar around her ears as she listened intently to Duncan’s speech. “The Wardens were founded during the first Blight, when humanity stood on the brink of annihilation. So it was that the first Wardens drank of darkspawn blood and mastered their taint.”

Solona’s eyes snapped open as her entire body jerked with a start, and the violent churning in her stomach had nothing to do with the presence of lyrium. Even if she’d suspected some kind of twisted phylactery, she hadn’t allowed herself to think of _drinking_ the black, hissing blood they’d collected. “We’re going to drink the blood of those… those _creatures_?” Jory all but whispered in horror, giving voice to Solona’s and, she was sure, Daveth’s.

Duncan nodded, his voice calm as he drew them away from their understandable shock as best he could. “As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you. This is the source of our power, and our victory.”

Solona was so intent on watching the chalice that she didn’t notice when Alistair stepped out of the shadows until he stood at her side. His eyes sought hers and Daveth’s as he explained hurriedly, “Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense it in the darkspawn, and use it to slay the archdemon.”

He appeared urgent to justify the use of the monsters’ blood, where Duncan remained stoic and inevitable as he held the chalice before him; he had told them there was no turning back, and as much as they begged or fought, Solona doubted they would leave the temple as anything less than Grey Wardens. She studied the gravity behind his impassive features, years of a secret order and a “greater good” emphasizing the lines around his dark brown eyes: she looked into the guilt he didn’t bother to hide with necessity, and she no longer felt the chill that had seeped into her bones. His voice seemed weighted by the burden of the Wardens as he added, “Not all who drink the blood will survive, and those who do are forever changed. This is why the Joining is a secret. It is the price we pay.”

Solona felt Daveth shift beside her, and she watched him nod from the corner of her eye, his mouth drawn into a straight line as he stared at the silver cup. Jory stood taller as he fought the urge to recoil from what awaited him, his hand twitching more prominently than it had before, and Solona felt a twinge of empathy for him. She watched as his eyes darted from the chalice to the temple’s only exit, and she began to worry about another possible outcome of the Joining, free of darkspawn blood but just as lethal.

 _Drink the blood, and maybe you’ll die; refuse, and die for sure—there is no turning back_.

“We speak only a few words before the Joining, but these words have been said since the first,” Duncan went on, seemingly oblivious to Jory’s mounting panic. “Alistair, if you would?”

Solona looked away from Jory’s widening eyes to Alistair, and realized that he had been watching her, looking for… what? Acceptance? As soon as her gaze met his, Alistair bowed his head, his eyes nearly closing as if in prayer, and his voice was low and soft as he intoned, “Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand, vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be foresworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten, and that one day we shall join you.” His last words were almost inaudible, spoken like a vow, and when he looked up, his eyes did not seek Solona’s again, fixing instead on his commander and the chalice he held.

“Daveth, step forward.” Duncan’s expression was indiscernible again, shielded as he proffered the cup, and Solona had the sudden desire to beg to be the first to drink, to undergo the test while its effects were still only imagined.

But Daveth was already nudging her elbow with his, winking as he squeezed her hand. As he let go, Solona was momentarily stricken by how few times she’d been touched when her life wasn’t in peril—not that this wasn’t one of those times; she itched to return the gesture, but he had already stepped forward to meet Duncan. He reached out to accept the chalice, and Solona realized that the strangled gasp she heard came from her own throat as she watched him bring the blood to his lips with the same resolve she’d experienced at her Harrowing.

_Pass your Harrowing or die; choose the Rite of Tranquility and all you are leaves your body behind—there is no turning back._

Daveth swallowed darkspawn blood and returned the cup to Duncan’s waiting hands, and everyone in the temple froze, breathless as they waited. Pain gripped him without any warning, doubling him over as he clutched at his head, his throat, keening in agony. Solona tried to reach him as he fell to his knees, dredging up what she remembered of healing magic and hoping that she would be able to help as her mana pooled around her.

She was stopped by a hand gripping her elbow, pulling her back firmly, and she whirled around to glare up at Alistair; the regret she saw in his eyes swept the anger from her. She yanked her arm from his grasp even so, determined to stand there for Daveth if that was all she could do. She whispered a desperate prayer, as scared for him as she was for her own fate; her voice was lost as Daveth writhed in front of her before throwing his head back, wailing incomprehensibly, and his eyes were the same luminous white as the moon above them.

“Maker’s breath!” Jory backed away to the wall, his hand clutching at his own throat in horror, and Solona gasped, rooted to the spot as all her prayers to the Maker dropped with her stomach to the temple’s floor. Daveth began to jerk violently, choking on his screams as he fell onto hard stone. He gurgled, the wet sound of blood bubbling up with his voice, and he twitched once more before life fled his body and left him deflated, void of breath and soul.

“I am sorry, Daveth.” Duncan sounded torn, as if he felt Daveth’s death rip through his own soul, and for an instant his face was twisted by grief, reminiscent of a parent who lost a child. He shared in Solona’s sorrow, but with the added weight of responsibility, before he was grim and impassive again. “Step forward, Jory,” he said, holding the blood out to his second recruit as Solona was overwhelmed by tears and a scream that couldn’t quite push past her lips.

She watched through blurred eyes as Jory refused, pressing back against the wall as if he hoped to break through the ancient stone and flee Duncan’s steady approach. “I have a wife… a child. Had I known…” His voice warbled, and his movements were unsteady in his terror, and even if Solona had predicted something like this would happen, it made it no easier to witness as Duncan continued to close the small distance between them. She noticed Alistair simultaneously fall away from his place at her side to stand at the temple’s exit.

“There is no turning back.” Duncan held out the chalice as he issued one last warning, his features hard, immovable by the knight’s pleas.

It was all too much for Jory, who swayed from side to side as his entire body defied Duncan’s order to drink from the cup. He was ghostly pale as he drew his sword, wielding it in front of him desperately, as if he had never drawn his own weapon before. “There is _no glory_ in this!” he cried.

Duncan had set aside the chalice as Jory gripped the hilt of his sword, and now he responded by drawing his own, his stance like that of a templar at an apprentice’s Harrowing. _Refuse and die for sure_. “You _idiot_!” Solona shrieked, sense fleeing once again as she thought of shoving past sharpened steel and forcing the blood down the knight’s throat before he got himself run through, but she was unheard, and Jory lashed out at the Warden Commander.

His attacks were parried by Duncan, who was calm and deliberate against Jory’s frenzied swings, and Alistair still waited if the recruit managed to break away. But Duncan drew in close, his sword locking with Jory’s and holding it at bay long enough for him to slip a dagger through an opening in his armor. Jory choked on his dying breath, his body leaning into the blade between his ribs.

Duncan placed his hand on his shoulder, his eyes closed as he murmured, “I am _sorry_.” Then he withdrew his dagger and stepped away, allowing Jory to fall to the floor, nearly lining up with Daveth.

Solona looked down at the fallen recruits in morbid fascination, forgetting she was expected to follow them, one way or another, until Duncan picked up the chalice again. She turned to face the cup, feeling the effects of the lyrium more strongly than ever as her hands closed automatically around cool, polished metal. She looked down at the potion, dully reflecting the light of the moon, and though she was aware Duncan was speaking again, she heard only her own heart, as loud as it had been in the Circle Tower.

She had come to Ostagar to be a Warden, to prove that her worth would not be bound by blood, and now she stood ready to undertake another ritual while a templar stood at her back. The irony tilted her lips upward humorlessly, and she wondered just what would happen if she simply dropped it, let the blood spill over the floor. Hundreds of years and so many Wardens before her, had one of them ever overturned the cup?

She swirled the potion in the chalice, watching it gleam darkly, and imagined Jowan standing next to her, similarly bound by his own _dabbling_ in the forbidden arts. For all of his foolish intent to improve his power, to _outshine_ his peers, Solona doubted he would be able to face this test, this _oath_ ; this was not blood magic, this was the only option of the men and women who served humanity in a way the Chantry never could. _Just pretend it’s tea_.

“Two lumps, please,” she said softly, exhaling, and then she drank from the cup.

The pain was unbearable, lyrium burning through her throat before she had any time to try to prepare herself for it. She felt it set fire to her head, even as the blood seemed to freeze in her veins, merging with her own blood and forever tainting it. She was unaware of everything and everyone around her, knowing only that she must be dying, that she wasn’t strong enough to survive this.

Then she felt a pull, a power welling darkly in her core, like her own mana; separate and yet a part of her. Duncan’s voice was faint to her ears as he announced, “From this moment forth, you are a Grey Warden,” relief evident in his tone, though she was far from sharing in it. The force grew inside of her, intent to fill and overpower who she was, and she fell into a world of white.

_She stood in the Fade, but she didn’t—she felt more in a vision than in her own dream. Fire consumed the distorted earth around her, white hot and terrible, threatening to consume her as gusts of heat forced her to shield her eyes. She squinted through the blinding light of the flames, desperate to find some hint of where she might be, and saw the twisted paths of the realm of spirits beneath her feet. She heard a growling chorus in the distance, the guttural chant of countless darkspawn, and she tried to cover her ears against it._

_Then from behind her she heard a roar that shook the world around her like an earthquake, resonating in her core and threatening to rip out the dark energy that had amassed in her veins as it tried to embrace the creature that had made the sound. She clung to the power as her own mana lashed out at the foe she knew she couldn’t defeat—not here, not where this monster was her God and it ruled over her blood now as surely as it did this realm. She screamed, furious as she spun to face the thing that demanded her allegiance._

_It was a nightmare itself: a great dragon, its armored scales seeming to absorb the light surrounding them, making it a thing of shadow as black as the untouchable City of dreams it loomed beneath. Where its body was dark, its teeth and eyes were as white as Daveth’s eyes had been. Solona felt the dragon’s ominous intent as it tilted its head, angling so one great eye peered down at her, boring into her mind in a way that she had never before experienced—it_ knew _her as it watched her._

_She shrieked again, magic swelling around her hands almost on its own, railing against the thing that tried to turn her against herself…_

___

Joining hadn’t been easy; despite his desire to get away from the life the Chantry had tried to stuff him into, Alistair hadn’t anticipated what awaited him in the Wardens’ Denerim compound. Like the ceremony that had just passed, he’d stood with two other recruits as Duncan held out the chalice of darkspawn blood, and another senior Warden—Alistair couldn’t remember his name for the life of him now, but he had been from Orlais—had recited the words Duncan had appointed to him. He recalled one moment before the first recruit drank, when he thought of how ironic it was that even if he’d left the templar order behind, he would still be swearing himself into the Wardens by drinking lyrium.

Then the first recruit had died. It had been quick, but by no means painless, and years of Chantry discipline barely held Alistair in place as he watched a man fall helplessly to the floor, unable to fight what was in his own veins. Alistair was next in line to drink, taking the cup from Duncan and swallowing noxious blood along with betrayal, fear, loss. The nightmare of hideous monsters dancing amidst a world of fire hadn’t been pleasant either.

Afterward, he’d had time; time alone in a room where he could recover from the shock of what he’d submitted to, what a part of him believed he’d been _tricked_ into, even if Duncan had warned him that life in the Wardens wouldn’t be easy—he’d been too desperate to hear anything other than a way out of the templars. He’d had time to find his place in the Wardens, to feel the sharp edge of “whatever means necessary” dull to something he could understand, if not accept. He’d had time to experience a sense of camaraderie, a brotherhood the templars had done their best to _stifle_ , before the Wardens had awoken to the same dream of a giant dragon rising, roaring.

Solona wouldn’t have any of this.

Alistair watched her from his perch against the wall, noting with some trepidation how much _paler_ the moon made her; a life spent locked up in a tower had ensured she hadn’t had much color aside from the slight sunburn on her cheeks and nose, but now she looked... ashen, ghostly. Her robes were ripped and filthy, her hair was a rat’s nest of tangles and marsh flora, wounds still marred her face and hands, and now her throat as well after she’d tried to claw out the darkspawn blood she’d choked down; if he and Duncan hadn’t been standing watch, a passerby probably would have assumed she was either dead or dying. Yet after one night of this, of pain and nightmares, she would still have to wake up in the morning and face the foe she’d sworn herself against.

“How much longer before she wakes up?” Alistair asked, crossing his arms as a slight frown touched his features; they’d managed to move Daveth and Ser Jory, to honor their passing as much as they could without drawing attention, and still Solona remained asleep. He looked up at Duncan, keeping the newest Warden in his periphery in case she began to stir. He wondered if he’d been unconscious this long—he hadn’t exactly been in the right frame of mind at the time to notice.

“However long it takes.” Duncan stood near Solona, looking down on her with an alert kind of weariness, and Alistair was suddenly stricken by how many Joinings his commander must have witnessed, let alone conducted. He wondered exactly when horror and death became routine, when this grief was considered part of being a Warden—he hoped he never found out. Duncan’s eyes darted to his, and he added, “We will know when it’s time to wake her, Alistair.”

His words were meant to reassure, and while Alistair was thankful for Duncan’s attempt, it still did nothing to quell his urge to shake Solona awake before she began to tremble and moan in the face of what haunted all Grey Wardens. He hoped she would still imitate Duncan, smile and hum while she unconsciously curled in on herself in fear of the darkspawn horde. Their pasts had been similar, if only in their way of coping as their _need_ to escape their planned fates became nigh unbearable, and now he couldn’t help but feel like someone who’d dangled a string of freedom in front of giant cat and… tied her up with it.

Solona finally stirred as if she could hear them talking, her hand twitching as a frown turned down her lips, but Duncan only continued to watch. Alistair moved to stand at his side, worried but trusting that he wasn’t letting Solona suffer unnecessarily. However, the idea that they were waiting as she suffered _necessarily_ drew another frown, this one more pronounced than the last.

He glanced to his right, studying the familiar profile of the man who’d offered him choice over manufactured destiny. Duncan was the commander of the Grey in every sense of the word, impressive and reserved as he stood at the head of Ferelden’s order, but as Alistair had watched him over the months, he’d noticed that his laugh became less frequent as he grew increasingly distant. When he slept, he could no longer maintain that distance, and nightmares plagued him as if he were a new recruit—the thought made Alistair’s blood run cold, and he returned his focus to Solona.

Her head was tossing from side to side now, and still her hands jerked. When she began to moan, louder and louder, and her fingers seemed determined to dig into the stone floor beneath her, Alistair couldn’t stand just waiting anymore. “Solona,” he said softly, but firmly, trying to reach her over the din of her dreams. He braced himself for Duncan’s disapproval, but he continued to only watch, now leaning forward as Solona stopped moaning, her body poised as if she’d heard someone call her name.

Alistair bent closer to her, placing one hand on her uninjured shoulder to shake her lightly. “Solona,” he repeated, nodding to himself in confirmation when she grimaced, eyes rolling underneath her lids as she fought to open them. Duncan mirrored his nod and held out a vial of distilled lyrium; Alistair immediately took it, removing the small cork as it occurred to him how much worse the Joining potion had to be for a mage’s sensitivity—and yet she would still have to use her magic in the next battle.

Duncan seemed to wait for Alistair to catch up with his own train of thought. “She will feel the call of the surrounding darkspawn more strongly than any of us, and she will not be at her best. Watch over her, Alistair: I believe you have her trust.”

“I’ve done a fine job with it so far, haven’t I?” Alistair mumbled bitterly, certain that Solona would hate him when she woke up; he’d led her through the Wilds and brought her back to a lifetime of death and secrecy—he wouldn’t blame her if she thought he was the scum of the earth. He felt Duncan’s eyes fall on him, and he turned to face him, blushing as his commander studied him shrewdly. “I’m sorry, Duncan, I—”

Duncan’s hand raised, silencing him. “You’re concerned for her—this is why she will trust you.” His grin was wry, thin as he added, “Though I think her tongue will prove to be sharp in the days to come.” He chuckled, but Alistair caught the small downturn of his mouth, the briefest hint of guilt before it was smoothed away into more resignation. Alistair’s blood chilled again at the thought of how the years that showed on his face more and more had little to do with age.

Solona began to cringe away from the brightness of the moon, and Duncan said softly, “Her tent has been moved close to the infirmary. Take her there to recover, and see to getting some rest yourself.” His gaze was pointed as he issued his command, and while Alistair knew he’d be useless to both Solona and the rest of the gathered army if he was dead on his feet after a night of keeping watch, he felt that he owed it to the newest Warden to be there when she woke up in the morning. He also wanted to _know_ that she’d pull through the sorrow and anger she was bound to feel—to know if she hated him.

Duncan seemed to once again anticipate his train of thought, and his voice was heavy, even if his features remained stoic. “Her will is strong—she’s been tested before, just as you have.” Solona’s eyes opened as he finished, bleary and unfocused, and Alistair repeated her name when her eyes wavered on him and Duncan… just before she pitched herself to the side to retch on the floor.

Alistair crouched at her side, pressing the vial to her lips first so she was prepared when he tipped it back. She drank just a little of the potion, whispering her thanks as she trembled on her hands and knees, and Alistair handed the lyrium back to Duncan so he could help her onto her feet. Solona was weak where she stood, and Alistair maintained his hold on her, as much to steady her as to reaffirm she had survived.

Solona let out a shaky breath, massaging her temples as she slowly looked up at Duncan, who waited in front of them. “Welcome.” Duncan’s relief was evident in his tired smile, and he held out the vial for her to take, to sip at until the worst of her mana imbalance had passed. She reached out just as slowly, accepting it with another murmur that could have been thanks as her gaze fell on where the other recruits had been.

Alistair knew it would come, a whirlwind of loss and relief and betrayal, and he felt it keenly as her eyes sharpened, as her mouth hardened and she mourned their deaths as well as the end of the life she’d known. His grip on her tightened as he shared in her grief, her anger, until it stuttered, broke as she experienced _his_ guilt; she started, confused and frightened, and gulped on another wave of nausea. Duncan spoke again, quiet as he drew Solona from panic, from misery. “How do you feel?”

Her annoyance lashed out like a whip, and Alistair winced under the knife-edge of her sarcasm. “Peachy.” He flinched again when she broke away from him, yanking out of his grip to stand on her own, but she immediately staggered and fell back into his hold. Alistair was caught between remorse and something that was almost amusement as she struggled half-heartedly for a moment longer, even as she nearly became deadweight from her exhaustion, before giving up and accepting that she wasn’t going to stay upright without his assistance.

“Take her to her tent,” Duncan ordered, his voice still soft as Solona resumed clutching at her head. Then he turned to Alistair, adding, “The king has requested her presence at tomorrow’s strategy meeting.” He suspected Duncan had purposefully waited to deliver this last bit of information, and he didn’t bother to hold a roll of his eyes in check, though he did keep from voicing his irritation—Duncan already knew enough of what he thought about Cailan’s _strategy_ without having to listen to him whine like a child, and Solona probably wasn’t listening to much of anything at this point.

Instead, he gave a brief nod that he’d do as commanded, and Duncan turned without another word and left the temple, presumably to tell the other Wardens in the valley that they had added one more to their ranks. Alistair’s eyes swept the empty stone floor once more, sighing, and then they closed when Solona moaned again in sickness and confusion. “Come on,” he said gently, more to himself than her, and began to lead her toward the infirmary, all but carrying her as she remained dazed by lyrium, grief, and the pull of the darkspawn blood.

He doubted she’d remember any of what he told her now, but Alistair felt he should try to give her _some_ explanation of what she was experiencing, knowing her first night as a Warden would be long and restless, especially with so many darkspawn lurking in the Wilds. “The blood lets us _feel_ the darkspawn,” he told the top of her head as he dragged her up the incline to her tent. “They have—I don’t know what you’d call it—a… _group mind_ , one that we can tap into. It takes a bit, but you’ll get used to it,” he offered lamely as he ducked through the tent’s opening, guiding her onto her waiting bedroll.

Her eyes were already closed, her mouth still set in a grim line Alistair deemed unnatural on her face, and he was struck again by how wan she looked, how very close she’d seemed to come to following Daveth’s example after she’d drank the potion. Thoughts of death and darkspawn blood spurred his memory, and he shook himself, reaching into the pack that had held the thick vials for the recruits’ test to pull out a small pendant on a simple chain. He looked down at the bit of glass, filled with the black blood they’d collected in the Wilds, and felt the weight of his own underneath his armor.

He remained at Solona’s side until she opened her eyes, despite the desire he sensed in her to be left alone, and held the pendant over her face where she’d be able to clearly see it. “This is yours,” he murmured, placing the chain in her open palm when she continued to only stare at it. “We take some of that blood and put it in a pendant—something to remind us… of those who didn’t make it this far.” His voice dropped to nothing more than a whisper as his throat suddenly constricted in mourning, in guilt, and he started when Solona’s eyes fixed on his for the first time since the Joining had begun.

She seemed to stare at him forever, and he held his breath, transfixed as he waited for her to judge him, to dismiss him. But her features only softened as she studied him, allowing him to witness her own sorrow, to feel it himself, before she drew his attention to her hand; she was too tired to thank him in any way except to curl her fingers over the offered pendant. It was enough, and Alistair didn’t bother to hide his relief as he exhaled, doubled over as he stood in the small tent; he knew she wouldn’t have been able to see his weak smile even if her eyes hadn’t already closed, but he gave her one all the same. “I’m glad you made it through.”

He turned and left her tent as her frown returned, another moan on the edge of her lips as she slipped back into a night of fevered dreams. Outside, cool air washed over him like forgiveness, like Solona’s hand around her pendant. Her belongings had been moved closer to the infirmary so she would be closer to the rest of the Grey Wardens in the valley, but also because her cries would be less noticeable amongst wounded soldiers succumbing to the taint.

He could hear distorted waves of singing and raucous laughter carrying over the wind from the army camp; the greener soldiers were combating their growing apprehension with drink and gambling. Alistair imagined the king with them and frowned, thinking of the new Warden in her tent, struggling to sleep while plagued with visions of flame and terror; Cailan couldn’t have known what she was going through tonight, but he’d still requested the presence of a new recruit at a strategy _party_ even though she’d never seen a battle, let alone fought in one. _So, Alistair, how do you_ really _feel?_

Alistair’s irate snort was broken by a yawn, and he stretched his arms, feeling the fatigue in his limbs that came from leading, from putting nervous recruits before himself. Duncan had told him to sleep, that someone else would watch over Solona through the worst part of her dreams, and while falling into his own bedroll was increasingly appealing, he still lingered outside the tent. He heard Solona begin to stir in her sleep, moaning again, and sighed as he rubbed two days’ worth of grit and grime from his hair. _Well, Duncan didn’t say anything about waiting until someone else showed up._


End file.
